'HE  TONGUES  OF  MEN 


rARD  CHILDS  CARPENTER 


Calif  orn; 
3gional 

LCllltf_._/[UEL^RENCH,  25  West  45th  St.,  New  York 


Farce  in  3  acts.  By  Leo  Ditrichstein.  7  males,  7  fe< 
males.  Modern  costumes.  Plays  2J/4  hours.  1  interior. 

"Are  Ton  a  Mason?"  is  on*  of  these  delightful  farces  like 
"Charley's  Aunt"  that  are  always  fresh.  "A  mother  and  a 
daughter,"  says  the  critie  of  the  New  York  Herald,  "had  hus- 
bands who  account  for  absences  from  the  joint  household  on 
frequent  evenings,  falsely  pretending  to  be  Masens.  The  men 
do  not  know  each  other's  dnplieity,  and  eaeh  tells  his  wife  of 
having  advanced  to  leadership  in  his  lodge.  The  older  woman 
•was  so  well  pleased  with  her  husband's  supposed  distinction  in 
the  order  that  she  made  him  promise  to  put  up  the  name  of  a 
visiting  friend  for  membership.  Further  perplexity  over  tha 
principal  liar  arose  when  a  suitor  for  his  second  daughter's  hand 
proved  to  be  a  real  Masen.  ...  To  tell  the  story  of  the  play 
•would  require  volumes,  its  complications  are  so  numerous.  It  ia 
a  house  of  cards.  One  card  wrongly  placed  and  the  whole  thing 
•would  collapse.  But  it  stands,  an  example  of  remarkable  in- 
genuity. You  wonder  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  how  the  fun 
can  be  kept  up  on  such  a  slender  foundation.  But  it  continues 
and  grows  to  the  last  curtain."  One  of  the  most  hilariously 
amusing  farces  ever  written,  especially  suited  to  schools  and. 
Masonic  Lodges.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents, 


KEMPY 

rA  delightful  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  J.  C.  Nugent  and 
Elliott  Nugent.  4  males,  4  females.  1  interior  throughout. 
Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

No  wonder  "Kempy"  has  been  such  a  tremendous  hit  in  New 
York,  Chicago — wherever  it  has  played.  It  snaps  with  wit  and 
humor  of  the  most  delightful  kind.  It's  electric.  It's  small- 
town folk  perfectly  pictured.  Pull  of  types  of  varied  sorts,  each 
one  done  to  a  turn  and  served  with  zestful  sauce.  An  ideal 
entertainment  for  amusement  purposes.  The  story  is  about  a  high- 
falutin'  daughter  who  in  a  fit  of  pique  marries  the  young  plumber- 
architect,  who  comes  to  fix  the  water  pipes,  just  because  ha 
"understands"  her,  having  read  her  book  and  having  sworn  to 
marry  the  authoress.  But  in  that  story  lies  all  the  humor  that 
kept  the  audience  laughing  every  second  of  every  act.  Of  course 
there  are  lots  of  ramifications,  each  of  which  bears  its  own  brand 
of  laughter-making  potentials.  But  the  plot  and  the  story  are 
not  the  main  things.  There  is,  for  instance,  the  work  of  the 
company.  The  fun  growing  out  of  this  family  mixup  is  lively  and 
clean.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
1        Our  New  Catalogue  Will  Be  Sent  on  Receipt  of  Five  Cents 


The  Tongues  of  Men 


A   COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


BY 
EDWARD  CHILDS  CARPENTER 


COPYRIGHT,   1913,  BY  EDWARD   CHILDS    CARPENTER 


All   Rights   Reserved 

CAUTION:  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  warned  that 
"THE  TONGUES  OF  MEN,"  being  fully  protected  under  the 
copyright  laws  of  the  United  States  of  America,  the  British 
Empire,  and  all  other  countries  of  the  Copyright  Union,  is 
subject  to  a  royalty  and  anyone  presenting  the  play  without 
the  consent  of  the  owners  or  his  authorized  agents  will  be 
liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided.  Applications  for  the 
amateur  acting  rights  must  be  made  to  Samuel  French, 
25  West  45th  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


NEW  YORK 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 
25  WEST  45TH  STREET 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET 

STRAND 


"THE  TONGUES  OF  MEN" 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of  this 
book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first  having  been 
obtained  from  the  publisher  confers  no  right  or  license  to 
professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play  publicly  or  in 
private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  production, 
recitation,  public  reading  or  radio  broadcasting  may  be  given 
except  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  25  West 
45th  Street,  New  York. 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment  of 
a  royalty  of  Twenty-five  Dollars  for  each  performance,  pay- 
able to  Samuel  French,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York,  one 
week  before  the  date  when  the  play  is  given. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must 
appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the 
play:  "Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French 
of  New  York" 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows: 

"SECTION  4966 : — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  repre- 
senting any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copy- 
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assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof,  such  damages  in 
all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hun- 
dred dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subse- 
quent performance,  as  to  the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just. 
If  the  unlawful  performance  and  representation  be  wilful  and 
for  profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  mis- 
demeanor, and  upon  conviction  shall  be  imprisoned  for  a 
period  not  exceeding  one  year." — U.  S.  Revised  Statutes : 
Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


CHARACTERS 

REV.  PENFIELD  STURGIS,  Rector  of  St.  Martin's-in- 

the-Lane. 

REV.  DR.  DARIGAL,  Rector  emeritus  of  St.  Martin's. 
GEORGINE  DARIGAL,  his  daughter. 
DR.  LYN  FANSHAW,  his  cousin. 

GOADBY^'  1     Vestrymen  of  St.  Martin's. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY,  a  member  of  St.  Martin's. 

THOMAS,  choir-boy  at  St.  Martin's. 

JANE  BARTLETT,  Prima  Donna  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  Company. 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE,  Contralto  of  the  Opera 
Company. 

WINIFRED  LEEDS,  in  the  Chorus  of  the  Opera  Com- 
pany. 

HERMAN  GEIST,  Manager  of  the  Opera  Company. 

SEPULVEDA,  a  young  Spanish  Composer. 

JULIE,  Jane  Bartlett's  maid. 

RAPHAEL,  Jane's  man-servant. 


The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  playbill  of  the  first  per- 
formance of  "THE  TONGUES  OF  MEN,"  as  produced 
at  the  Harris  Theatre,  New  York,  Monday  evening,  No- 
vember 10th,  1913: 

MAURICE    CAMPBELL 

Presents 
HENRIETTA  CROSMAN 

In 
THE    TONGUES    OF    MEN 

By 
EDWARD  CHILDS  CARPENTER 

"Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of 
angels  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as 
sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal."  (St.  Paul's 
Epistle  to  the  Corinthians.) 

CHARACTERS  IN  THE  PLAY 

REV.  PENFIELD  STURGIS, 

Rector  of  St.  Martins-in-t  he-Lane  ......  Frank  Gillmore 

REV.  DR.  DARIGAL, 

Rector  Emeritus  of  St.  Martin's.  John  Maurice  Sullivan 
GEORGINE  DARIGAL,  his  daughter  ........  Gladys  Alexandria 

DR.  LYN  FANSHAW,  his  cousin  ........  Frederick  Truesdall 


MRS.  KEARSLEY,  a  member  of  St.  Martin's.  .Deiride  Doyle 
THOMAS,  a  choir  boy  at  St.  Martin's  ......  Gerald  Bidgood 

JANE  BARTLETT,  prima  donna  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
Company   ..............................   Miss  Crosman 

WINIFRED  LEEDS,  in  the  chorus  of  the  Opera  Company, 

—  Florence  Fontayne 
HERMAN  GEIST,  Manager  of  the  opera  house, 

—  Sheridan  Block 
SEPULVEDA,  a  young  Spanish  composer  ......  Macy  Harlan 

JULIE,  Jane   Bartlett's   maid  ................  Natalie   Perry 

RAPHAEL,  Jane's  man  servant  ..............  Benton  Grace 

SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENES 

ACT  I  :    Vestry  room  of  St.  Martin'  s-in-the-Lane. 

Sunday. 
ACT  II  :    Jane  Bartlett's  Apartments. 

Ten  days  later. 
ACT  III  :    The  same.    The  next  day. 


The  Tongues  of  Men 


ACT    I 

SCENE:  Vestry-room  of  St.  Martin' s-in-the-Lane, 
one  o'clock  on  a  winter's  day.  The  walls  of  the 
room  are  panelled  in  walnut  and  the  furniture  is 
of  carved  walnut.  A  Gothic  door  in  c.  of  back 
flat.  High-backed  chairs,  of  Gothic  design  and 
upholstered  in  red,  stand  either  side  of  the  c. 
door.  The  R.  and  L.  upper  corners  of  the  stage 
are  occupied  by  walnut  cupboards  built  in  to 
match  the  wainscotting.  A  heavy  arched  door 
set  in  c.  of  R.  flat.  Below  it  a  carved  walnut 
chest  of  drawers.  On  the  chest  a  pair  of  silver 
candlesticks. 

Down  stage,  R.C.,  a  large  high-backed  chair. 
A  big  stained-glass  window  in  c.  of  L.  flat.  L. 
of  L.c.^a  big  oblong  walnut  table  set  lengthwise 
up  and  down  stage.  On. the  table  a  red  blotter, 
silver  mounted;  heavy  glass  and  silver  ink- 
stand; large  flat  vestry  record  books;  glass  and 
silver  vase  of  cala  lillics.  L.  side  of  table  an- 
other high-backed  chair.  Smaller  Gothic  chairs: 
one  at  upper  end  of  table,  two  on  R.  side;  one 
at  R.  lower  corner.  A  large  chair  against  L.  flat 
down  stage.  All  are  upholstered  in  red.  A  red 
carpet  on  the  floor.  Sunlight  through  the 
stained-glass  window. 

Before  the  rise  of  the  curtain  an  organ  and 
voices  of  a  boy  choir  heard  singing  a  recessional 
5 


6  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

"Jerusalem  the  Golden."  As  curtain  rises  the 
last  verse  of  the  hymn  is  finished;  then  "Amen." 
Silence  for  an  instant  for  the  prayer.  Another 
"Amen."  Silence  again.  Murmur  of  many 
voices  heard  off  c.  to  indicate  the  disbursement 
of  the  congregation. 

Right  door  opens  suddenly  and  THOMAS,  a 
small  choir-boy  in  cotta  and  cassock,  slips  in, 
darts  to  table  L.C.,  runs  his  hand  along  the  under 
edge  of  table,  plucks  a  large  piece  of  chewing- 
gum,  thrusts  it  in  his  mouth,  chewing  ecstatic- 
ally, and  starts  to  R.D. 

At  that  moment  the  R.D.  is  opened.  Enter 
REV.  DR.  DARIGAL,  a  white-haired,  soft-spoken, 
kindly  old  gentleman  in  vestments.  He  is  fol- 
lowed by  REV.  PENFIELD  STURGIS,  the  rector  of 
the  church,  a  sturdy  young  man  of  engaging 
personality  and  manners,  full  of  fire,  unworldly, 
but  cocksure  of  himself.  He  is  in  vestments  and 
carries  the  manuscript  of  a  sermon  bound  in 
limp  black  leather. 

The  clergymen  are  surprised  at  the  sight  of 
THOMAS. 

DARIGAL.  (Staring  at  THOMAS)  What  are  you 
doing  in  the  vestry-room,  Thomas? 

THOMAS.  (Embarrassed  both  by  detection  and 
the  chewing-gum,  which  muddles  his  diction)  N-n- 
nothin' ! 

PENFIELD.  (Eying  THOMAS  severely)  Thomas, 
you  are  not  telling  the  truth !  Come !  Out  with  it ! 
(Takes  THOMAS  by  the  ear.) 

THOMAS.  (Pulling  an  end  of  the  chewing-gum  in 
a  long  string  from  his  mouth)  I  was  j-jus'  gettin' 
me  gum! 

DARIGAL.     (With  a  low  laugh)    Upon  my  word ! 

PENFIELD.  (Sarcastically)  Do  you  always  keep 
your  "g-u-m"  in  the  vestry-room? 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  7 

THOMAS.  Sure!  The  fellows  are  scairt  to  come 
in  here  and  pinch  it. 

DARIGAL.     Steal  it — you  mean ! 

PEN  FIELD.  (Amazed)  Do  the  boys  of  St.  Mar- 
tin's steal? 

THOMAS.     It  ain't  stealin'  to  swipe  gum. 

PEN  FIELD.  Thomas,  I'm  going  to  report  this  to 
the  choir-master. 

THOMAS.  Oh,  gee!  He'll  fire  me,  an' — an'  you'll 
be  sore,  'cause  nobody  can  sing  the  solos  as  good  as 
me. 

PENFIELD.  I  will  have  discipline.  You  and  all 
the  boys  must  understand  that  it  is  wrong  to  steal 
.  .  .  even  chewing-gum! 

THOMAS.     But  I  ain't  stole  nothin' ! 

PENFIELD.  But  you  had  the  temerity  to  use  the 
vestry-room  as  a  depository  for  your  obnoxious  con- 
fection ! 

THOMAS.  I-F11  never  do  it  again — if  you  won't 
squeal  on  me  this  time. 

DARIGAL.     (To  PENFIELD)     That's  a  promise. 

PENFIELD.  (To  THOMAS)  Will  you  solemnly 
promise  never  to  hide  your — eh — chewing-gum  in  the 
vestry-room  again? 

THOMAS.  Yes,  sir!  (Slips  to  the  R.D.  With  a 
look  of  meaning  at  PENFIELD)  It  wouldn't  be  safe 
any  more! 

(THOMAS   darts   out   R.D.     DARIGAL   laughs  softly. 
PENFIELD  starts  frowningly.) 

PENFIELD.  (Crossing  to  table  L.C.  and  laying,  his 
script  upon  it)  I'm  afraid  our  boys  are  getting  out 
of  hand,  Doctor! 

DARIGAL.  (Still  smiling,  going  up  to  cupboard  i^.) 
Oh,  they're  just — boys! 

PENFIELD.  But  boys  who  steal  each  other's  chew- 
ing-gum must  be  more  or  less  lax  in  their  morals. 


8  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

DARIGAL.  (Opening  cupboard  door,  in  the  back 
of  which  is  set  a  mirror  and  a  rack  of  toilet  articles) 
You  never  stole  another  boy's  chewing-gum  ?  (Takes 
off  stole  and  cotta  and  hangs  them  in  cupboard.) 

PENFIELD.  Certainly  not!  (Goes  up  to  R.  cup- 
board.) 

DARIGAL.  (Taking  off  cassock)  Ah,  but  you  must 
have  chewed  gum ! 

PENFIELD.  Never!  (Opening  R.  cupboard  door, 
in  back  of  which  is  set  a  mirror  and  a  rack  of  toilet 
articles;  looking  in  the  mirror.) 

DARIGAL.  (Hanging  up  cassock;  he  is  now  in  his 
shirt-sleeves)  Too  bad!  It  would  have  been  good 
for  you! 

PENFIELD.  (Taking  off  stole  and  cotta,  with  a 
little  laugh)  I  never  felt  the  need  of  it.  I  had  no 
appetite  for — (With  a  grimace) — "gum!"  (Hangs 
up  stole  and  cotta  in  cupboard.) 

DARIGAL.  (Turning  to  PENFIELD)  My  dear  Pen- 
field,  a  few  small  vices  are  good  for  the  best  of  us ! 

PENFIELD.     (Shocked)     Why,  Doctor! 

DARIGAL.  All  natural,  human  desires  are  good  for 
us!  We  must  control  them,  but  they  keep  us  in 
touch  with  our  fellow  men.  That's  where  you  fail ; 
you  have  no  vices — you're  not  quite  human !  (With 
a  little  laugh)  The  way  you  pummel  the  poor  sin- 
ner! (Shakes  his  head  humorously  as  he  turns  to 
the  cupboard  and  takes  out  his  clerical  frock  coat.) 

PENFIELD.  (Unbuttoning  his  cassock)  Are  you 
thinking  of  my  sermon  ? 

DARIGAL.   (Slipping  into  his  coat)   Perhaps  I  was ! 

PENFIELD.  (Taking  off  his  cassock)  The  best  ser- 
mon I  ever  wrote.  I  felt  every  word  of  it !  (Hangs 
cassock  in  cupboard  and  takes  out  clerical  frock 
coat.) 

DARIGAL.  Thunder,  my  dear  lad!  Effective,  but 
thunder — all  the  same! 

PENFIELD.     (Turning  to  DARIGAL,  with  the  coat 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  9 

in  his  hand — warmly)  The  thunder  and  lightning  of 
truth  is  the  only  thing  that  reaches  a  congregation  in 
these  days.  They  fall  asleep,  or  think  of  the  world, 
the  minute  you  begin  to  temper  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb. 

DARIGAL.  (Smiling)  I  know !  Our  shorn  lambs 
protect  themselves  so  comfortably  with  Persian  lamb 
jackets  and  fur  overcoats  that  nothing  short  of  a 
hurricane  impresses  them ;  but  it  is  possible  to  overdo 
the  thunder. 

PENFIELD.  (Putting  on  his  coat)  You  didn't  like 
the  sermon? 

DARIGAL.  I  liked  your  courage — it  takes  courage 
to  condemn  an  opera  from  the  pulpit — but  you  were 
too  violent ! 

PENFIELD.  But  the  opera  is  violent !  It's  a  vile, 
a  blasphemous  thing.  You  know  nothing  about  it. 
It's  a  story  of  degenerate  invention !  The  authors 
have  taken  a  disciple,  Judas  Iscariot,  for  their  hero 
— made  him  fall  a  victim  to  the  seductions  of  a  har- 
lot called  Zaporah!  The  woman  mocks  his  faith — 
and  in  a  frenzy  he  kills  her.  Now  do  you  think  I 
was  too  violent? 

DARIGAL.  No — no — it's  a  ghastly  story!  But  I 
can't  help  wishing  you  had  been  content  to  denounce 
the  opera — that  was  enough. 

PENFIELD.    What  else  do  you  object  to? 

DARIGAL.  Your  arraignment  of  the  singer.  It 
wasn't  kind,  it  wasn't  charitable.  She  is,  after  all, 
one  of  God's  creatures,  even  though  she  impersonates 
so  base  a  character  as  Zaporah. 

PENFIELD.  I  must  speak  the  truth.  I  hit  the  nail 
solidly  on  the  head. 

DARIGAL.  (Crossing  R.C.  and  laying  a  hand  on 
PEN  FIELD'S  shoulder)  Your  errors  are  the  inevitable 
errors  of  youth.  Ten  years  from  now,  you'll  be  a 
great  preacher.  You  have  the  talent,  the  eloquence, 
the  magnetism,  but  you  lack  humility ;  you  are  on  in- 


io  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

timate  terms  with  all  the  virtues,  but  you  know  noth- 
ing of  the  common,  every-day  temptations  which  as- 
sail the  human  heart.  If  you  ever  expect  to  fulfill 
your  mission,  you  must  remember  one  thing,  dear  lad 
— give  the  miserable  sinner  out  there — (With  a  ges- 
ture toward  C.D.) — a  fighting  chance  to  win  salva- 
tion! (Knock  at  C.T>.) 
DARIGAL.  Come  in ! 

(Enter  GEORGINE  DARIGAL.  She  is  a  pretty,  charm- 
ing, well-bred  girl  of  twenty.  She  carries  a  set 
of  skunk  furs.) 

GEORGINE.  (To  DARIGALJ  What  a  time  you've 
been  changing,  Father!  Hello,  Pen!  And  such  a 
lot  of  people  waiting  to  see  you !  Do  hurry ! 

DARIGAL.  (Getting  Jiis  overcoat,  cane,  and  silk  hat 
from  cupboard  up  L.j  Coming,  my  dear!  You'd 
better  bring  Penfield  home  to  dinner.  (DARIGAL, 
with  his  overcoat  across  his  arm,  hurriedly  exits  C.D.) 

GEORGINE.    Will  you  come,  Pen  ? 

PENFIELD.  Gladly!  But  will  you  stay  a  moment 
— I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

GEORGINE.  (Smiling)  Go  ahead — if  you  promise 
not  to  preach. 

PENFIELD.  (Closing  C.D.,  and  coming  down  c., 
smiling  to  her)  I'm  not  going  to  preach,  I'm  going 
to  plead — to  you. 

GEORGINE.  Oh,  Pen,  I  have  a  feeling  in  my  solar- 
plexus  that  you  are  going  to — propose  to  me ! 

PENFIELD.  (Standing  c.,  looking  at  her  solemn- 
ly) I  am ! 

GEORGINE.    But,  my  dear  Pen,  do  you  know  how? 

PENFIELD.    I  shall  manage. 

GEORGINE.    Ah,  you've  had  experience? 

PENFIELD.    No !    Never ! 

GEORGINE.  This  is  your  debut!  How  thrilling! 
You  must  be  careful  not  to  bungle  it ! 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  n 

PENFIELD.     I  hope  I  have  some  instinct ! 

GEORGINE.  Instinct  is  not  sufficient.  You  must 
have  mastered  the  technique ! 

PENFIELD.    Have  you  ? 

GEORGINE.     I  have  had  a  lot  of  experience. 

PENFIELD.     (Worried)     Really? 

GEORGINE.    You're  not  a  bit  flattering. 

PENFIELD.    Honest  proposals? 

GEORGINE.  Some !  Others  were  just  touch-and- 
go  affairs,  you  know. 

PENFIELD.    Flirtations  ? 

GEORGINE.    Rather ! 

PENFIELD.    I  didn't  think  that  of  you ! 

GEORGINE.  Oh,  that  was  just  by  way  of  tuning  up 
for  the  right  man. 

PENFIELD.    Am  I  the  right  man? 

GEORGINE.    Pen,  you  haven't  proposed  yet. 

PENFIELD.    How  shall  I  begin? 

GEORGINE.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  rely  on 
your  instinct. 

PENFIELD.  I  think  it  would  be  safer  to  be  guided 
by  your  experience. 

GEORGINE.  Very  well !  I'm  sitting  here  very  much 
bored — that  is — pretending  to  be  bored !  I  ought  to 
be  playing  with  something.  Let  me  see !  What  did 
I  have  when  the  last  man  proposed?  Oh,  yes!  It 
was  his  bull-terrier.  He  was  in  my  lap.  The  dog 
was  in  my  lap.  You  haven't  got  a  dog  about  you? 
No !  Well,  this  will  have  to  do !  (Takes  fur  from 
her  shoulder.)  The  tail  of  my  dear  little  skunk! 
(Frisks  the  tail.) 

PENFIELD.  (A  little  crossly)  Now  that  you've 
arranged  yourself  so  thoroughly  to  your  satisfaction, 
be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  I  should  do  ? 

GEORGINE.    Kneel — of  course ! 

PENFIELD.    I  have  no  intention  of  doing  so ! 

GEORGINE.  But,  Pen  dear,  you  kneel  so  beautiful- 
ly! 


12 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 


PENFIELD.    (Severely)    Georgine,  when  I  kneel  it 
has  a  sacred  significance. 

GEORGINE.    Charge,  Pen,  charge !     Or  I  shall  not 
accept  you. 

PENFIELD.    You  are  going  to  accept  me  ? 

I  never  accept  or  reject  in  advance  of 


GEORGINE. 
proposal ! 

PENFIELD. 
dear" ! 

GEORGINE. 

PENFIELD. 

GEORGINE. 
Now  go  on ! 

PENFIELD. 

GEORGINE. 


But  just  now  you  called  me — "Pen 


hand. 


Affectionately  ? 
I  thought  so. 

Hm !     I  must  keep  myself  in 
Kneel !    There's  a  dear ! 
Is  it  the  rule? 

Do  you  think  I'd  put  you  through  any 
tactics  that  are  not — the  rule  ? 

PENFIELD.  I  think  you  capable  of  asking  me  to 
stand  on  my  head ! 

GEORGINE.  I  know  heaps  of  men  who  would  stand 
on  their  heads  for  me. 

PENFIELD.  (Affectionately)  I'm  sorry,  Georgine, 
for  your  sake  that  I'm  not  a  gymnast ;  it  is  not  in  me 
to  be  so  amusing,  but  my  affection  for  you  is  sincere 
and  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  make  you  happy — if  you 
will  be  my  wife? 

GEORGINE.  I  couldn't  even  reject  you  nicely  at 
this  distance ! 

PENFIELD.  (Going  to  her  suddenly  and  taking  her 
firmly  by  the  shoulders)  Georgine,  will  you  marry 
me? 

You're  not  on  your  knees,  Pen  dear! 
Will  you  marry  me? 
(Looking  up  at  him  solemnly)     Do 


GEORGINE. 
PENFIELD. 
GEORGINE. 
you  love  me  ? 
PENFIELD. 
GEORGINE. 
PENFIELD. 


I  love  you,  Georgine. 
Are  you  sure  you  do  ? 
Ahh!    I  do— I  do! 


GEORGINE.   (Rising,  looking  into  his  eyes,  her  hand 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  13 

on  his  arm)  Pen,  you're  a  dear  thing!  But  you 
haven't  asked  me  if  I  love  you? 

PEN  FIELD.  (Anxiously)  Well,  you  do — don't 
you? 

GEORGINE.    You  funny  boy — I  adore  you. 

PENFIELD.     It's  good  of  you  to  say  so,  Georgine. 

GEORGINE.  Oh,  you  wonderful,  lovable  goose! 
Aren't  you  going  to — to  kiss  me  ? 

PENFIELD.  If  you  don't  mind!  (GEORGINE  slips 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kisses  him.  Then  she 
backs  away  from  him  a  little,  but  still  holds  his 
hands.  He  is  the  least  bit  embarrassed.  With  an 
embarrassed  laugh)  Well,  we're  engaged  now. 

GEORGINE.  (Teasingly)  Of  course  you  haven't 
got  a  ring. 

PENFIELD.  (Triumphantly)  But  I  have.  (Takes 
a  little  satin  box  from  his  pocket,  opens  it,  showing 
diamond  ring.  Offers  it  to  her.) 

GEORGINE.  (Laughing  heartily)  Pen !  Pen ! 
Where  did  you  get  it  ? 

PENFIELD.  (Importantly)  At  one  of  the  very  best 
shops ! 

GEORGINE.    But  when? 

PENFIELD.    About  a  week  ago. 

GEORGINE.    Who  did  you  buy  it  for? 

PENFIELD.    You ! 

GEORGINE.  (With  a  burst  of  laughter)  What 
monumental  nerve! 

PENFIELD.  Not  at  all.  I  was  preparing  myself 
for  any  emergency. 

GEORGINE.  (With  a  transition  to  sweetness)  You 
were  sure  I'd  accept  you ! 

PENFIELD.     I  had  a  premonition  that  you  would. 

GEORGINE.  (With  a  laugh)  Pen,  I  could  slap 
you! 

PENFIELD.  You  have  my  permission.  (Offers  his 
cheek  to  be  slapped.  GEORGINE  makes  a  move  to 
slap  him,  but  klssej  him  instead.) 


14  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

GEORGINE.  Put  it  on  my  finger,  and  I'll  forgive 
you !  (Holds  out  her  finger.) 

PENFIELD.  (Placing  the  ring  on  her  finger)  With 
this  ring  I  betrothe  thee,  Georgine;  and  pledge  my- 
self to  keep  thee  happy  evermore. 

GEORGINE.  Oh,  Pen,  what  a  precious,  solemn,  lit- 
tle betrothal.  (Kisses  the  ring.  Then,  with  a  tran- 
sition to  lightness)  What  Love  hath  joined  let  no 
woman  put  asunder ! 

PENFIELD.  (Going  to  cupboard  up  R.,  and  brush- 
ing his  hair  at  the  mirror  set  in  cupboard  door) 
Now,  I'll  go  out  and  see  these  people.  Then  home 
with  you  to  dinner.  (Takes  silk  hat  from  cupboard.) 

GEORGINE.  (Crossing  idly  to  table  L.c.j  Don't 
let  Mrs.  Kearsley  snatch  you  away  from  me ! 

PENFIELD.  (Going  toward  her,  stroking  his  silk 
hat)  Mrs.  Kearsley? 

GEORGINE.  Yes.  I  have  a  feeling  that  she's  lying 
in  wait  for  you.  She's  one  of  your  pets ;  or  you're 
one  of  hers.  Which  is  it? 

PENFIELD.  She's  a  good  sort,  Georgine,  but  there 
is  no  petting  between  us.  If  there's  one  thing  I  dis- 
like it's  petting.  (Looking  about.)  Where's  my  ser- 
mon? 

GEORGINE.  (Picking  up  script  from  table  and 
handing  it  to  him,  mockingly)  We  must  be  careful 
nothing  happens  to  that. 

PENFIELD.  (Pausing  with  the  script  in  his  hand, 
looking  at  her  questioningly)  Oh,  you  didn't  care 
for  it? 

GEORGINE.  Pen,  dear,  don't  ask  me  what  I  think 
of  it. 

PENFIELD.  Why  not?  I'm  always  glad  to  have 
an  honest  criticism. 

GEORGINE.  Then,  honestly,  it  was  dreadful. 
(PENFIELD  is  amazed,  hurt,  angry.)  I  don't  see  how 
you  could  be  so  narrow-minded  as  to  call  "Zaporah" 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  15 

the  most  blasphemous  opera  ever  sung  in  this  city, 
and  say  such  awful  things  about  a  wonderful  singer 
like  Jane  Bartlett.  It  was  horrid,  and  ignorant  and 
bigotted. 

PENFIELD.  (Angrily)  Horrid?  Ignorant?  Big- 
otted? Huh! 

GEORGINE.    It's  the  truth  and  you  don't  like  it. 

PENFIELD.  I  like  the  truth,  but  I  don't  care  for 
perverted  opinions. 

GEORGINE.  Oh,  Pen,  Pen,  Pen  dear!  I  must  find 
some  way  to  pry  open  your  foolish  eyes.  You'd  be 
such  a  stunning  preacher  if  you  would  only  s-e-e! 

PENFIELD.  For  a  blind  man,  I'm  a  tolerable 
preacher  as  it  is ;  and  I  propose  to  speak — not  as  you 
— but  as  /  see  and  feel —  (Flourishing  the  script.) 
Nothing  can  budge  me  from  the  stand  I've  taken. 

GEORGINE.  (Warmly)  Some  day  you  are  going 
to  get  a  terrific  bump  if  you  go  on  standing  there! 

(Knock  at  the  R.D.  PENFIELD  goes  to  it  impatiently 
and  opens  it,  mussing  up  his  silk  hat  as  he  has 
to  handle  it  and  the-  script.  Enter  DR.  LYN 
FANSHAW,  a  physician,  age  forty-five,  still 
youthful  in  manner  and  figure,  a  debonair  man 
of  the  world.  He  smiles,  comprehending  that 
GEORGINE  and  PENFIELD  have  been  quarrelling.) 

PENFIELD.    Good  morning,  Doctor ! 

FANSHAW.  Look  here,  Pen,  your  choir-master  is 
a  sick  man.  I've  prescribed  for  him.  He  ought  to 
be  in  bed.  I've  told  him  so,  but  he  won't  listen  to 
me.  Now  I  want  you  to  send  him  home  and  tell  him 
to  stay  there. 

PENFIELP.  I'll  see  him  at  once !  (Places  his  hat 
and  script  on  the  chest  of  drawers  Rv  and  exits  R.D.J 

GEORGINE.  (Wearily,  holding  out  a  hand  to  FAN- 
SHAW  J  Good  morning,  Cousin  Lyn! 


16  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

FANSHAW.  (Greeting  her  warmly)  How  is  the 
most  precious  and  adorable?  I  thought  I  sniffed 
powder  in  the  air  as  I  came  in ! 

GEORGINE.  I  told  Pen  his  sermon  was  horrid.  He 
didn't  like  it. 

FANSHAW.  Naturally !  Remember,  he's  the  little 
aluminum  angel  of  this  parish!  And  who  are  you, 
that  you  should  disapprove  of  such  a  shining  thing  as 
a  little  aluminum  angel  ?  He's  not  used  to  having  his 
words  of  wisdom  riddled  with  common  sense!  Do 
you  know,  it's  amazing  the  way  he  holds  this  big  con- 
gregation. There's  genius  in  that ! 

GEORGINE.  Yes,  but  he  goes  too  far !  (She  turns 
wearily  and  sits  at  lower  end  of  table  L.C.,) 

FANSHAW.  Pen's  young!  He's  full  of  the  un- 
conscious cruelty  of  outspoken  youth.  He  wields  the 
sledge  hammer  blindly,  but  they — (With  a  gesture 
indicating  C.D.J — like  the  noise  it  makes  on  his  an- 
vil. 

GEORGINE.  That's  what  I  told  him!  He  has  no 
business  to  hit  a  woman  the  way  he  hit  Jane  Bartlett 
this  morning ! 

FANSHAW.  (With  a  transition  from  his  quiet 
manner  to  one  of  indignation)  If  my  arm  had  been 
long  enough  I  would  have  reached  up  to  the  pulpit 
and  cheerfully  wrung  his  neck!  He  needs  someone 
to  put  the  fear  of  God  into  him! 

GEORGINE.  (Surprised  at  his  vehemence)  I  never 
heard  you  speak  like  that,  Cousin  Lyn ! 

FANSHAW.  (With  a  little  shrug,  lapsing  back  into 
his  customary  composure,  and  dropping  into  the  big 
chair  R.C.)  I'm  not  used  to  hearing  my  friends 
cursed  out  with  bell,  book  and  candle ! 

GEORGINE.  (Rising  in  wonder  and  awe)  Jane 
Bartlett ! — a  friend  of  yours  ? 

FANSHAW.  I  knew  Jane  Bartlett  when  you  were 
a  mere  mushroom  in  the  fields  of  yesterday. 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  i; 

GEORGINE.  (Going  to  FANSHAW,)  Why,  Cousin 
Lyn,  she's  ages  younger  than  you  are ! 

FANSHAW.  I  beg  your  pardon — not  ages !  Miss 
Bartlett  is  standing  on  the  threshold  of  Indian  Sum- 
mer— all  bronze  and  russet  and  gold 

GEORGINE.  (Clasping  her  hands)  Oh,  she's  so 
gorgeous,  so  stunning,  so  wonderful — the  most  won- 
derful singer  in  the  world (Awed.)  And  you 

actually  know  her?  (FANSHAW  nods  with  humorous 
conceit.)  But  then,  you  know  all  the  wonderful  peo- 
ple !  They  send  for  you  to  look  at  their  tongues  and 
thump  their  chests,  and  they  keep  you  to  talk  to  them 
— because  you're  so  sweet  and  cunning  and  clever 
and  friendly!  I'm  sure  that's  how  you  met  Miss 
Bartlett — wasn't  it?  She'd  sneezed — or  had  a  frog 
in  her  throat — or  perhaps  she  had  fainted  when  you 
were  in  the  audience — and  they  called  for  a  doctor — 
Oh,  how  was  it  ?  When  did  you  meet  her  ? 

FANSHAW.  I  met  her  when  she  was  hooking  her 
ladder  to  a  star.  At  that  time  she  had  only  one  of 
her  magnificent  toes  on  the  bottom  rung — but  she 
was  holding  on  so  tightly  that  I  could  not  shake  her 
loose. 

GEORGINE.  (Thrilled)  You  were  in — love — with 
her? 

FANSHAW.  (Serio-comically)  Oh,  madly!  I  was 
as  young  as — as  Pen  ! 

GEORGINE.  How  perfect!  Aren't  you  still  mad 
about  her  ? 

FANSHAW.  Bless  my  soul,  ancients  like  me  have 
lost  their  capacity  for  such  divine  lunacy. 

GEORGINE.    Where  did  you  lose  yours? 

FANSHAW.     Inquisitive  kitten,  I  don't  remember. 

GEORGINE.  Delightful  liar,  you  do.  It  was  away 
back  at  the  bottom  of  her  ladder,  wasn't  it  ? 

FANSHAW.    That's  a  good  place  to  throw  off  ex- 


i8  THE   TONGUES   OF    MEN 

GEORGINE.  Silly !  You  should  have  followed  her 
up  the  ladder. 

FANSHAW.  (Shaking  his  head)  I  had  my  own 
ladder  to  scale. 

GEORGINE.  And  now  that  you're  both  at  the  tops 
of  your  old  ladders,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? 

FANSHAW.  The  top  of  a  ladder  is  an  exceedingly 
lonely  place. 

GEORGINE.  I  don't  believe  hers  is.  It's  thick  with 
flowers  and  swarming  with  beaux;  a  regular  fairy- 
land where  she  is  queen — (Teasing  him) — and  where 
stuffy  old  doctors  are  warned  off  the  grass. 

FANSHAW.  Not  this  stuffy  old  doctor!  (He 
preens  himself  cockily.) 

GEORGINE.  Then  you're  still  friends?  Go  on — 
tell  me  about  her !  (Wildly  enthusiastic.)  Does  she 
really  use  that  awful  perfume  they've  named  after 
her?  Is  she  really  a  lady?  Oh — and  did  a  Prince  of 
India  give  her  one  of  his  crown  jewels?  Tell  me — 
does  she  get  two  thousand  dollars  a  night  ?  (Breath- 
lessly) Has  she  so  many  gowns  that  she  keeps  a 
card-index  of  them?  Is  she  in  love  with  Caruso? 
And  do  tell  me — is  she  married  ? 

FANSHAW.  She  would  consider  a  husband  as  su- 
perfluous as  a  saucepan ! 

GEORGINE.  Very  well — no  husband.  Do  tell  me — 
have  you  ever  been  in  her  dressing  room  ?  Is  she  as 
beautiful  off  the  stage  as  on?  Does  she  have  her 
breakfast  in  bed  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon? 
Does  she  fly  into  a  rage  at  nothing  and  box  her 
maid's  ears?  Were  her  jewels  really  stolen  from 

Marguerite's  casket?  Don't  joke  so Tell  me 

everything ! 

FANSHAW.  Dou  you  think  I  can  give  you  her 
biography  in  one  breath?  There  are  thirteen  vol- 
umes published  about  her ! 

(Enter  PENFIELD  R.D.J 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  19 

PEN  FIELD.  I'm  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting, 
but (Knock  at  c.v.) 

GEORGINE.  (To  FANSHAWJ  Oh,  bother!  You'll 
have  to  tell  me  everything  the  next  time  I  catch  you 
alone ! 

PEN  FIELD.    Eh  ? 

GEORGINE.  (Rising)  I  thought  everyone  had 
gone  by  this  time.  Do  get  rid  of  them  as  soon  as  you 
can,  Pen.  I'll  go  and  tidy  up  the  chancel.  (Exit 
GEORGINE  R.D.J 

(PENFIELD  goes  to  C.D.  and  opens  it.  Enter  MRS. 
KEARSLEY,  a  fashionably-gowned  woman  of  for- 
ty-five, whose  breeding  is  conspicuous  by  its  ab- 
sence. She  is  followed  by  two  vestrymen  of  the 
church — LOUGHRAN,  a  tall,  lean,  middle-aged 
puritanical  type  of  man,  dressed  in  sober  clothes, 
and  GOADBY,  a  short,  stout,  jelly-fish  of  a  man. 
FANSHAW  rises  and  watches  the  visitors  with  an 
amused  expression.) 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Grabbing  PEN'S  hand  and 
shaking  it)  Oh,  Mr.  Sturgis,  I  couldn't  wait — so  I 
came  in  with  your  vestrymen — I  hope  you  don't 
mind.  I  felt  I  must  tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed 
your  brilliant  sermon ! 

PENFIELD.  (Beamingly)  You're  very  kind,  Mrs. 
Kearsley ! 

LOUGHRAN.    Capital  sermon,  Sturgis ! 

GOADBY.  (Shaking  PENFIELD'S  hand)  Yes!  Cap- 
ital, capital ! 

PENFIELD.     So  glad  you  liked  it,  Mr.  Goadby. 

GOADBY.  What  did  you  think  of  it,  Doctor? 
(Comes  down  L.C.  by  table.) 

FANSHAW.  (Standing  by  chair  R.c.j  I've  sur- 
vived! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Leaving  PENFIELD  and 
LOUGHRAN  up  c.  and  going  to  FANSHAW  L.C.J  Oh, 


20  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

Dr.  Fanshaw,  don't  you  think  it  was  a  wonderful 
sermon?  You  know,  I've  been  simply  raving  about 
it! 

FANSHAW.    I  dare  say ! 

LOUGHRAN.  I  hope,  Sturgis,  that  we  can  persuade 
you  to  repeat  your  address  before  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

GOADBY.  Yes,  you  ought  to  repeat  it  before  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A. 

PENFIELD.  I  shall  be  glad  to,  if  you  think  it  worth 
while. 

LOUGHRAN.  Worth  while!  I  should  say  so! 
Your  sermon  ought  to  be  printed  and  distributed  all 
over  the  country ! 

GOADBY.    Yes,  it  ought  to  be  distributed. 

LOUGHRAN.  It's  the  only  way  we  can  suppress 
these  indecent  exhibitions.  The  Church 

FANSHAW.  I'll  venture  to  say  that  none  of  you 
have  heard  the  opera — Zaporah  ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  I  bought  seats  for  Thursday 
night,  but  after  what  Mr.  Sturgis  has  said,  I  shall 
certainly  destroy  the  tickets !  (To  PEN  FIELD  )  You 
see  what  an  effect  your  sermon  has  had  on  me — and 
I  paid  ten  dollars  apiece  for  those  tickets ! 

FANSHAW.  You'd  better  turn  them  in  at  the  box- 
office.  They'll  refund  the  money. 

PENFIELD.  I  suppose  you've  seen  the  opera,  Doc- 
tor? 

FANSHAW.    Yes,  I've  seen  it. 

LOUGHRAN.  (Shocked)  I'm  amazed  at  you,  Fan- 
shaw ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (To  FANSHAW — eagerly)  Oh, 
tell  me,  Doctor,  is — is  it  so  fearfully  wicked  ? 

FANSHAW.     (Humorously)     Desperately ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Oh,  really!  And  is  Jane  Bart- 
lett  as  shocking  as  Mary  Garden  was  in  Salome  ? 

FANSHAW.  Miss  Bartlett  is  an  artist,  and  no  artist 
ever  shocked  me,  except  with  a  poor  performance ! 

GOADBY.    That's  just  how  I  feel  about  it. 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  21 

LOUGHRAN.  (Turning  to  GOADBY  sharply) 
You've  seen  the  thing  ? 

GOADBY.  (Embarrassed)  I — I  didn't  care  about 
going  myself,  but  Mrs.  Goadby 

FANSHAW.  The  woman  tempted  me  and  I  did 
eat! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (To  GOADBY)  How  horrid  of 
you  to  blame  it  on  Mrs.  Goadby. 

GOADBY.  (Miserably)  I — didn't — I  was  just  go- 
ing to  say — (Wiping  his  forehead  with  his  handker- 
chief)— since  I've  seen  the  opera.  Loughran,  I'm 
quite  of  your  opinion — it  ought  to  be  suppressed. 

LOUGHRAN.  It  will  be!  Let  me  have  your  ser- 
mon, Sturgis.  (PENFIELD  gets  his  sermon  from  the 
chest  of  drawers  down  R.J  I'll  see  that  the  press 
prints  it  in  full !  It  must  be  scattered  broadcast. 
(PENFIELD  gives  the  Ms.  to  LOUGHRAN.J 

FANSHAW.     (Warmly)     It  must  be  edited  first. 

PENFIELD.    I  prefer  it  to  stand  as  it  is  written. 

LOUGHRAN.  (To  PEN;  It  shall!  (To  FAN- 
SHAW J  You  don't  appreciate  the  importance 

FANSHAW.  (Cutting  in)  No!  I  don't  think  that 
Mr.  Sturgis's  tirade  against  the  opera  is  of  any  im- 
portance; but  when  he  condemns  the  personal  char- 
acter of  the  woman  who  sings  Zaporah,  he  commits 
a  grave  injustice.  That  is  important !  My  advice  is 
to  drop  it. 

GOADBY.    Yes,  we'd  better  drop  it ! 

LOUGHRAN.  This  battle  for  purity  shall  not  be 
dropped.  And  any  woman  who  so  far 

PENFIELD.  (Interrupting  him)  Don't  let  us  lose 
our  tempers. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  I  feel  as  though  it  were  none  of 
my  business,  but 

LOUGHRAN.  (To  MRS.  KEARSLEY,)  It  isn't! 
(MRS.  KEARSLEY  drops  into  chair  R.C.  as  though  she 
had  been  shot.  To  FANSHAW,)  I'm  the  rector's  war- 
den !  This  is  a  matter  for  the  rector  and  me  to  de- 


22  THE   TONGUES    OF    MEN 

cide!  (Thrusts  sermon  into  his  pocket.)  If  you  are 
coming  my  way,  Sturgis,  we'll  talk  it  over. 

PENFIELD.  I'm  going  to  Dr.  Darigal's  for  dinner. 
Be  good  enough  to  wait  a  moment.  I'll  call  Miss 
Darigal.  (PENFIELD  exits  R.D.J 

FANSHAW.  Loughran,  I  hope  that  you'll  cut  out 
all  reference  to  Miss  Bartlett  before  you  turn  that 
manuscript  over  to  the  press. 

LOUGHRAN.  (Sarcastically)  Evidently  she's  a 
friend  of  yours ! 

FANSHAW.  (Looking  at  him  coolly,  challenging- 
ly)  She  is ! 

LOUGHRAN.  Hum !  I'll  think  it  over !  (Turns 
to  GOADBY  L.C.J 

GOADBY.  (To  LOUGHRANJ  I  would  think  it  over. 
(He  and  LOUGHRAN  talk  in  pantomime  L.) 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (To  FANSHAW,)  Is  Miss  Bart- 
lett really  a  friend  of  yours?  What  is  she  like? 
And  do  you  think  there's  anything  between  her  and 
that  tenor — what's  his  name? 

FANSHAW.  (Smiling  down  upon  her)  I  reserve 
my  powers  of  deduction  for  the  benefit  of  my  pa- 
tients. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  No  one  ever  gets  the  first  thing 
out  of  you ! 

FANSHAW.    Except  for  a  fee. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  And  you  charge  so  outrageous- 
ly! 

FANSHAW.  I  have  to.  It's  the  high  cost  of  gas- 
oline ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Speaking  of  gasoline — I  saw  you 
dining  with  an  expensive-looking  woman  at  the  Ritz 
on  Wednesday  night.  Was  that  Miss  Bartlett? 

FANSHAW.    Yes ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.    She's  a  patient  of  yours? 

FANSHAW.    Yes ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Is  that  the  treatment  you  pre- 
scribe for  all  your  patients  ? 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  23 

FANSHAW.    If  they  are  attractive  enough! 

GOADBY.  (To  LOUGHRANJ  I  agree  with  you; 
these  singers  are  a  loose  lot !  I  wouldn't  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  them. 

LOUGHRAN.  Men  or  women  who  spend  their  lives 
on  the  stage  cannot  be  respectable ! 

(The  C.D.  has  remained  open.  JANE  BARTLETT, 
prima  donna  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Com- 
pany, appears  at  the  door.  She  has  an  air  of 
gracious  condescension,  dignity,  beauty,  opu- 
lence— and  possesses  a  superb  presence.) 

JANE.  (Pausing  at  the  door)  I  beg  your  pardon ! 
I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Penfield.  (LOUGHRAN  turns,  eyes 
askance  in  JANE'S  direction;  GOADBY  looks  at  her  in 
open-mouthed  wonder;  MRS.  KEARSLEY  in  surprised 
anticipation  of  something  about  to  happen;  FAN- 
SHAW  with  whimsical  amazement.) 

FANSHAW.  (Advances  from  R.C.  to  JANE,  who  is 
c.,  with  a  bow  and  welcoming  smile  and  hand)  Good 
morning,  Jane!  What  is  the  Persian  cat  doing  in 
Daniel's  den? 

JANE.  She  came  to  hear  that  boy  sing  and  stayed 
to  hear  that  extraordinary  sermon ! 

FANSHAW.    Good  Heavens ! 

JANE.  And  what  is  the  famous  doctor-man  doing 
here? 

FANSHAW.    He's  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  church ! 

JANE.    You  are  versatile ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Unable  to  restrain  herself,  go- 
ing up  to  JANE)  Oh,  Miss  Bartlett,  you  don't  know 
me,  of  course,  but  I  feel  as  though  I  knew  you. 
I've  heard  you  so  many  times  in  all  your  wonderful 
parts — except  Zaporah ! 

LOUGHRAN.  (Starting,  glowering  at  JANE,) 
Madam,  are  you  the  woman  who  sings — Zaporah? 


24  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

(JANE  looks  LOUGHRAN  up  and  down  as  though  he 
were  an  impudent  worm.) 

FANSHAW.  (Diplomatically,  introducing  them) 
Miss  Bartlett — Mr.  Loughran!  (LOUGHRAN  glares 
at  JANE  ;  plants  his  hat  firmly  on  his  head  and  exits 

C.D.J 

JANE.     Does  he  think  I  have  something  catching? 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  You  mustn't  mind  Mr.  Lough- 
ran.  As  our  dear  friend  Dr.  Fanshaw  says — he  was 
hewn  out  of  the  Plymouth  Rock.  (During  this 
speech  GOADBY  signals  FANSHAW  to  introduce  him 
to  JANE.J 

FANSHAW.  (Introducing  GOADBYJ  Miss  Bart- 
lett— Mr.  Goad  by !  (Humorously)  One  of  your  ad- 
mirers ! 

GOADBY.  (Grabbing  JANE'S  hand)  Honored  to 
meet  you,  Miss  Bartlett.  (Embarrassed.)  I — I  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you — eh — the  other  night  in 
Zaporah!  Most  delightful — altogether  delightful — 

JANE.  Yes,  "delightful"  describes  Zaporah  per- 
fectly. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  I  haven't  seen  the  opera — yet ; 
but  I  have  tickets  for  Thursday,  and  I  wouldn't  miss 
it  for  worlds.  I've  heard  such  charming  things 
about  it  and  your  wonderful  performance. 

JANE.    So  have  I — in  the  sermon  this  morning. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Oh,  my  dear,  you  mustn't  take 
what  Mr.  Sturgis  says  seriously.  He's  just  what  dar- 
ling old  Dr.  Darigal  calls  "a  thunderer." 

JANE.    His  bolts  strike  below  the  belt. 

FANSHAW.  But  fashion  changes  your  belt  line  so 
often  these  days  that  no  man  knows  where  to  draw 
the  line. 

JANE.  Any  man  with  a  sense  of  decency  ought  to 
know. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  We  all  took  Mr.  Sturgis  severe- 
ly to  task  for  what  he  said  this  morning.  It  was  real- 
ly outrageous. 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  25 

GOADBY.    Most  outrageous. 

JANE.  Where  is  the  thunderer?  I've  been  kept 
waiting  for  him  an  interminable  time ! 

FANSHAW.  I'll  call  him!  (Goes  to  R.D.  and  calls 
quietly)  Mr.  Sturgis! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Taking  card  from  her  hand- 
bag) Miss  Bartlett,  won't  you  waive  formality  and 
let  me  carry  you  off  to  supper  after  the  opera  some 
night !  I  know  so  many  of  your  artists  and 

JANE.  I  should  be  delighted,  but  I  go  home  di- 
rectly after  the  performance. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY..  (Giving  JANE  her  card)  Then 
I  shall  call  on  you ! 

JANE.  You're  very  kind,  Mrs.  .  .  .  (Looking  at 
card.) 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Kearsley!  You  may  know  of 
my  husband,  Gordon  Easby  Kearsley 

GOADBY.  (Cutting  in)  The  manufacturer  of  the 
Kearsley  reversible  shirt-front ! 

JANE.    Oh !    That  Kearsley ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Annoyed  at  GOADBY,  and  speak- 
ing hastily)  I'd  bring  Mr.  Kearsley  to  call,  but  he's 
such  a  fearfully  busy  man ! 

JANE.  And  I'm  a  fearfully  busy  woman ;  it's  dif- 
ficult to  say  when  I  shall  be  at  home. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Oh,  well,  if  I  should  miss  you 
the  first  time,  I  sha'n't  be  discouraged.  (Taking 
JANE'S  hand.)  Au  revoir!  Charmed  to  have  had 
the  privilege  of  meeting  you,  Miss  Bartlett!  (To 
FANSHAWJ  May  I  give  you  a  lift  in  my  motor, 
Doctor?  (MRS.  KEARSLEY  goes  up  to  C.D.) 

FANSHAW.  Thank  you !  (To  JANEJ  Nothing  I 
can  do  for  you  ? 

JANE,  (Privately  to  him)  Yes,  clear  out  and 
take  these  jelly-fish  with  you,  or  I  shall  commit  mur- 
der! 

FANSHAW.  Coming,  Goadby?  I  fancy  there'll  be 
room  for  you  in  the  tonneau !  (Starts  toward 


26  THE  TONGUES   OF   MEN 

GOADBY.  Just  a  second !  (Offering  hand  to  JANE, 
who  takes  it  drearily.)  Miss  Bartlett,  I  want  to  ask 
you  something.  In  "Zaporah" — eh — how  do  you 
keep  your  costume  from  slipping  off  your  right 
shoulder  ? 

JANE.    (Witheringly)    I  use  adhesive  plaster. 

GOADBY.  What  a  good  idea.  I'll  tell  Mrs.  Goad- 
by.  Au  revoir.  Honored  to  have  had  the  privilege 
of  meeting  you.  (Exeunt  MRS.  KEARSLEY,  FAN- 
SHAW  and  GOADBY  C.D.J 

(JANE  tears  up  MRS.  KEARSLEY'S  card  with  disgust 
and  throws  it  on  the  floor.  She  looks  about  her 
impatiently,  turns  to  L.C.,  sits  in  chair  by  table, 
taps  her  foot,  drums  her  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  generally  works  herself  up  into  a  high  state 
of  exasperation.) 

(PENFIELD  appears  at  R.D.  JANE  rises.  They  pause 
in  silence,  exchanging  an  appraising  look  of  in- 
terest and  antagonism.  PENFIELD  forgets 
GEORGINE,  who  is  just  behind  him,  carrying 
altar  linen  and  cloths  ewer  her  arm.  JANE  pays 
no  attention  to  her  for  the  moment.) 

JANE.  (In  a  purring  tone)  Mr.  Sturgis,  I  heard 
your  extraordinary  sermon  this  morning.  I  could  not 
go  without  speaking  to  you.  (PENFIELD  advances 
to  R.C.  GEORGINE  stops  within  the  R.  doorway,  star- 
ing at  JANE,  puzzled  and  apprehensive.) 

PENFIELD.  (Pleased)  I'm  glad  you  were  im- 
pressed. 

JANE.     (Ominously)    I  was  impressed. 

PENFIELD.  (Formally)  It  seems  to  have  been 
very  well  received  by  the  congregation.  I've  been 
asked  to  repeat  it  before  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

JANE.    You  must  not  repeat  that  sermon. 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  27 

PENFIELD.  (Taken  a-back)  Not  repeat  it  ?  Why 
not? 

JANE.  It  bears  false  witness  against  your  neigh- 
bor. 

PENFIELD.  (Astonished)  I  don't  follow  you.  I 
took  it  for  granted  that  you  were  favorably  im- 
pressed. 

JANE.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  shocked.  I've 
waited  to  tell  you  so.  (GEORGINE  is  wide-eyed  with 
amazement.) 

PENFIELD.  (Coldly)  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  dis- 
cussing my  sermons  with  strangers. 

JANE.  But  you're  in  the  habit  of  discussing 
strangers  in  your  sermons. 

GEORGINE.  (Coming  down  R.C.  below  chairs) 
Pen !  It's  Miss  Harriett ! 

PENFIELD.    (Taken  a-back)    Miss  Bartlett  ? 

JANE.    Yes !    We've  never  met  before — have  we  ? 

PENFIELD.    No ! 

JANE.  But  you've  heard  me  sing — "Zaporah,"  of 
course  ? 

PENFIELD.  Do  you  think  I  could  bring  myself  to 
witness  such  a  degrading  exhibition  ? 

JANE.  How  do  you  know  it's  a  degrading  exhibi- 
tion, if  you  haven't  seen  it? 

PENFIELD.  It  is  not  necessary  to  be  drunk,  to 
steal,  to  be  in  torment,  to  know  evil ! 

JANE.  No.  But  you  must  study  your  subject  be- 
fore you're  fit  to  pass  an  opinion. 

PENFIELD.  I've  studied  "Zaporah"  through  the 
medium  of  the  daily  press.  The  Morning  Chronicle 
says  that  there  is  no  denying  the  extremely  objection^ 
able  character  of  the  drama.  It  not  only  ascribes  to 
Judas  Iscariot  the  most  shocking  morals,  but  it  makes 
a  disciple  the  object  of  a  woman's  wanton  passion ! 

JANE.  (Impatiently)  Your  opinion  of  a  work  of 
art  is  of  no  consequence  whatever — I'm  foolish  to 
discuss  "Zaporah"  with  you !  But  when  you  attack 


28  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

my  personal  character — it's  of  great  consequence — 
and  you've  no  right  to  do  it ! 

PENFIELD.  I  must  guard  the  morals  of  the  com- 
munity. I  must  wage  this  battle  for  decency  and 
righteousness. 

JANE.  But,  my  good  Mr.  Sturgis,  why  do  you 
drag  my  name  into  your  crusade  ?  Why  do  you  call 
me  a  shameless  creature  ?  The  newspapers  didn't ! 

PENFIELD.     No !     They  lacked  my  conviction ! 

JANE.  They  lacked  your  imagination !  You  stood 
there  in  the  sanctity  of  your  pulpit  and  condemned 
me  without  knowing  the  first  thing  about  me !  You 
only  knew  that  no  one  dared  to  get  up  and  answer 
you!  I've  never  heard  anything  so  unjust,  so  cow- 
ardly— so  brutal!  I've  never  been  so  angry  in  all 
my  life — it  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  rising  in 
the  church  and  calling  you  liar ! 

PENFIELD.  (Amazed  and  angry)  I — I  beg  your 
pardon ! 

JANE.  (Still  angry)  Come  on  now!  What  are 
your  facts  ?  What  do  you  know  of  me  ? 

PENFIELD.  Upon  my  faith,  I  believe  that  any  wo- 
man who  assumes  the  role  of  such  a  vile,  wanton 
character  as  "Zaporah"  must  be  thoroughly  aban- 
doned— herself ! 

JANE.  (Amazed)  Good  Lord!  What  drivel!  I 
can't  believe  that  even  a  clergyman  can  be  so  big- 
otted!  (Exasperated.)  Oh,  it's  childish!  (Ex- 
cited.) It's — it's  idiotic — dyspeptic!  You've  got 
softening  of  the  brain!  (She  turns  and  drops  in 
chair  R.  of  table  L.C.) 

(GEORGINE,  with  a  sigh,  sinks  down  in  small  chair 
R.  of  the  large  chair  R.C.,  still  holding  the  altar 
cloths.) 

PENFIELD.  (Advancing  a  little  toward  JANE, 
speaking  strongly)  You  don't  contradict  me! 

JANE.     (Excitedly)     No!     It's  too  absurd — too 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  29 

fantastic — too  ridiculous !  Wh-wh-why,  I'm  no 
more  Zaporah  as  I  sit  here — than  you  are  the  angel 
of  wisdom  you  pretend  to  be  out  there — (Waving 
her  hand  toivard  c.D.J — in  the  church ! 

PENFIELD.  I'm  not  an  angel  of  wisdom ;  but  I'd 
gladly  use  what  knowledge  I  have  to  lead  you  to 
God. 

JANE.  You  are  so  pitifully  ignorant  of  this  world, 
how  could  I  trust  you  to  guide  me  to  the  next? 

PENFIELD.     I  have  my  guide-book  in  the  Bible. 

JANE.    You  should  consult  the  Book  of  Life! 

PENFIELD.    Its  pages  are  soiled. 

JANE.  And  you're  afraid  to  touch  them.  You 
hold  yourself  so  far  aloof  from  the  world  that  you 
don't  know  a  real  sinner  from  a  painted  one ! 

PENFIELD.    I  know  more  than  you  think. 

JANE.  If  you  know  life,  you'd  be  more  human, 
more  humble,  more  helpful — you  forget  what  St. 
Paul  said :  "Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of 
men  and  of  angels,  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  be- 
come as  sounding  brass,  or  a  tinkling  cymbal."  Step 
out  of  your  warm  nest!  Come  out  into  the  world 
and  learn  to  know  men  and  women ! 

PENFIELD.    The  world !    Where  shall  I  find  it  ? 

JANE.    All  about  you.    But  you  can't  see  it ! 

GEORGINE.     Oh,  Pen,  if  you  only  would ! 

JANE.  He  could,  if  he'd  come  down  and  make 
friends  with  these  sinners  he  condemns. 

GEORGINE.    I  don't  think  that  would  be  practical. 

JANE.  (Suddenly,  impulsively,  with  an  air  of  do- 
ing PENFIELD  a  great  favor)  Listen!  I  will  help 
Mr.  Sturgis. 

PENFIELD.    You're  very  kind,  but 

GEORGINE.  Mr.  Sturgis  wouldn't  think  of  bother- 
ing you ! 

JANE.     (To  GEORGINEJ     But,   Mrs.   Sturgis 

GEORGINE.     (Embarrassed)    I — I'm  Miss  Darigal. 

PENFIELD.    We're  engaged  to  be  married. 


30  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

JANE.  (To  GEORGINEJ  Ahhh !  Isn't  that  charm- 
ing! (To  PENFIELD,)  How  fortunate  you  are,  Mr. 
Sturgis.  (To  GEORGINEJ  You  must  be  very  proud 
of  him,  my  dear !  Now  listen  to  me.  I  want  to  in- 
troduce Mr.  Sturgis  to  some  great  artists — wonder- 
ful people — I  suppose  he  would  call  them  sinners ! 

GEORGINE.  I  don't  think  father  would  approve  of 
that. 

PENFIELD.  (With  exaltation)  But,  Georgine,  I 
might  be  able  to  convert  them ! 

JANE.    Then  come  with  me ! 

GEORGINE.  (Starting  up  earnestly)  Pen,  I  don't 
want  you  to  go. 

PENFIELD.  Why  not?  You,  too,  say  that  I  am 
ignorant,  bigotted,  that  I  need  to  see  something  of 
the  world. 

GEORGINE.  (Anxiously)  But  I'm  afraid  to  let 
you  go  and  meet  all  those  sinners. 

PENFIELD.     (Tartly)     I  can  take  care  of  myself. 

GEORGINE.  (Desperately  to  JANEJ  Oh,  why  did 
you  come  here  and  put  this  dreadful  idea  into  his 
head?  Nothing  good  will  come  of  it!  I  know,  I 
know! 

PENFIELD.  (Astonished  at  her  vehemence,  pro- 
testing) Georgine ! 

JANE.  (Rising,  to  GEORGINE,)  You  have  nothing 
to  fear!  (Lightly)  Unless  you  are  afraid  I  shall 
prove  to  Mr.  Sturgis  that  I  am  not  this  shameless 
creature  of  his  imagination  ! 

PENFIELD.  If  I  am  in  darkness,  I  shall  welcome 
the  light !  (He  looks  at  JANE  chattengingly.) 

JANE.    Will  you  come  ? 

GEORGINE.    (Tremulously)    Pen,  I  beg  you  not  to 

go- 

PENFIELD.     I  cannot  ignore  this  challenge.     It  is 

the  Church  defied  by  the  Devil ! 
JANE.  (Dryly)  Thank  you ! 
PENFIELD.  (Turning  to  her  quickly,  with  a  little 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  31 

smile  and  boyish  air  of  sincere  regret)  I  beg  your 
pardon. 

JANE.  Never  mind !  There's  the  making  of  a  man 
in  you.  A  true  man  of  God !  Some  day  you  will  be 
a  gentle,  wise,  splendid  speaker  of  the  truth. 

PENFIELD.  (Looking  steadfastly  into  JANE'S  eyes, 
speaking  simply,  after  a  pause)  I  will  come  ! 

JANE.  (Taking  card  from  a  silver  case  and  giving 
card  to  PENFIELDJ  Come  tomorrow  at  five ! 

PENFIELD.    Thank  you ! 

JANE.  (To  GEORGINE,  who  is  on  the  point  of  tears, 
but  who  controls  herself)  Good-bye,  my  dear.  Come 
to  see  me !  (JANE  starts  towards  C.D.  PENFIELD 
holds  it  open  for  her.  Offering  PENFIELD  her  hand) 
Au  revoir ! 

PENFIELD.  Good  day!  (JANE  exits  C.D.  PEN- 
FIELD  closes  it.  GEORGINE  crosses  to  table,  drops 
the  altar  cloths  on  it,  sinks  into  chair,  and  buries  her 
face  in  the  altar  cloths,  crying.  PENFIELD  looks  at 
JANE'S  card,  puts  it  carefully  into  his  pocket;  turns, 
sees  GEORGINE  crying,  looks  at  her,  throws  up  his 
Jiands  in  utter  be^vilderment.  Then  goes  to  her,  lay- 
ing a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Kindly)  Georgine, 
what  is  the  matter? 

GEORGINE.  (Sobbing)  It's  my  fault — it's  my 
fault ! 

PENFIELD.  I  declare,  dear,  I  can't  make  you  out ! 
(Takes  neatly  folded  handkerchief  from-  pocket  and 
gives  it  to  her.)  Here,  dry  your  eyes,  you  foolish 
little  thing!  (Cheerily)  Come  now — we  shall  be 
late  for  dinner!  (PENFIELD  goes  up  to  cupboard  R. 
upper  corner  of  stage,  opens  it,  takes  out  his  overcoat 
and  puts  it  on.  GEORGINE  sits  up,  dries  her  eyes, 
but  keeps  up  a  convulsive  dry,  silent  sobbing,  as  she 
takes  from  her  muff  a  small  vanity  box,  looks  at  her- 
self in  the  tiny  mirror  and  powders  the  tip  of  her 
nose.) 

CURTAIN  ON  ACT  I 


ACT  II 

SCENE:  Ten  days  later.  JANE  BART-LETT'S  apart- 
ments. It  is  a  "studio"  apartment,  with  a  -very 
high  ceiling.  The  back  flat  represents  the 
wooden  partition  of  the  duplex  section;  win- 
dows in  the  upper  half  and  a  door  R.  of  c.  On 
the  R.  an  enormous  glazed  studio  window,  hung 
with  old-gold  curtains  draped  back.  On  the  L. 
a  fireplace  c.  with  a  long  mirror  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  a  door  to  the  hall  above  it.  The  walls 
are  covered  with  a  bronze  burlap  paper,  and 
hung  with  a  few  good  prints  and  half  a  dozen 
canvases.  Below  the  R.  window  a  music  cab- 
inet; above  it  a  Jacobean  tabouret  supporting  a 
large  Japanese  vase  filled  with  cherry  blossoms. 
Down  R.C.  a  grand  piano,  the  keyboard  facing 
the  audience,  and  a  piano  bench.  Midway  up 
c.  a  Jacobean  carved  table,  covered  with  writing 
materials,  flowers  in  vases.  A  straight-backed 
chair  back  of  the  table,  and  an  easy  chair  at  the 
L.  lower  corner.  A  carved  Jacobean  settle  faces 
the  audience  at  the  fireplace;  a  tea  table  near  it; 
a  small  chair  below  the  fireplace.  A  big  carved 
chest  set  against  the  back  fiat  L.C.  All  the  fur- 
niture is  Jacobean.  A  profusion  of  cut  flowers 
on  mantel,  piano  and  tables.  Heavy  Turkish 
rugs  on  the  floor.  At  the  rise  of  the  curtain, 
DR.  FANSHAW  and  JULIE,  a  maid,  are  heard 
without  L.) 

FANSHAW.    (Without)    Bon  jour,  Julie! 
JULIE.    (Without)    Bon  jour,  Monsieur! 
32 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  33 

(FANSHAW  enters  L.D.,  followed  by  JULIE,  a  neat 
maid.) 

FANSHAW.    Is  Madame  at  home? 

JULIE.  (Speaking  with  a  French  accent)  To  you 
she  is  at  home  whenever  she  is  in. 

FANSHAW.    Is  she  in  now  ? 

JULIE.    (Diplomatically)    I  will  see,  Monsieur. 

FANSHAW.  Model  of  diplomacy,  say  that  it  is  im- 
portant ! 

JULIE.    Monsieur  can  find  the  cigarettes  ? 

FANSHAW.  Monsieur  can !  Say  to  Madame  that 
I  can  wait  three  minutes — no  longer. 

JULIE.     Bien,  Monsieur !     ( JULIE  exits  R.C.D.J 

(FANSHAW  goes  to  table  c.,  opens  a  big  bronze  box 
half-full  of  cigarettes;  selects  a  cigarette,  lights 
it,  and  wanders  over  to  the  fireplace.  There  is 
a  card  tray  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  looks  at  it, 
then  picks  up  a  card  and  reads  aloud:  "Mr. 
Pen  field  Sturgis!"  As  he  is  about  to  put  it 
down,  he  sees  another  card,  picks  that  up,  makes 
a  little  grimace  and  reads:  "Mr.  Pen  field  Stur- 
gis." Picks  up  a  handful  of  cards  and  reads 
aloud:  "Mr.  Pen  field  Sturgis,  Mrs.  Gordon 
Easby  Kearsley,  Mr.  Penfield  Sturgis,  Senor 

Jose    Sepulveda,     Mr.     Penfield    Sturgis" 

Phew!  Puts  down  cards  and  zvanders  over  to 
piano;  sits  with  legs  crossed,  on  piano  seat.  A 
window  up  c.  in  the  second  floor  of  the  apart- 
ment opens.  JANE  BARTLETT,  in  lace  breakfast 
cap  and  negligee,  looks  out  of  the  window.) 

JANE.  Well,  what  the  deuce  do  you  want  in  such 
a  hurry  ? 

FANSHAW.  (Turning  and  rising)  Come  down, 
and  I'll  tell  you! 

JANE.    Tell  me  now — I  have  the  advantage  of  you 


34 

up  here,  I  can  see  that  little  bald  spot  on  the  top  of 
your  head;  you've  been  hiding  it  from  me  all  these 
years! 

FANSHAW.  (Patting  his  head)  It  wasn't  there  a 
week  ago ! 

JANE.    You  can't  blame  me  for  that ! 

FANSHAW.    I  do !    Come  down  and  be  scolded ! 

JANE.    I'm  not  dressed. 

FANSHAW.    I  don't  care  how  you  look. 

JANE.    I  do. 

FANSHAW.  You  know  better  than  I  how  becom- 
ing those  webby  things  are  to  your  insolent  type  of 
beauty. 

JANE.  Thanks !  I  love  to  be  patted  and  spanked 
with  the  same  hand ! 

FANSHAW.  You  need  spanking!  You've  made 
yourself  beautiful  for  somebody — who  is  it? 

JANE.     Myself ! 

FANSHAW.  (Showing  that  he  does  not  believe 
her)  You're  very  good  to  yourself. 

JANE.  I  am  not  one  of  those  women  who  are 
brought  up  to  look  ugly  in  bed,  and  wear  their  old 
clothes  when  they  travel ! 

FANSHAW.  (Getting  impatient)  If  you  don't 
come  down  I'll  come  up! 

JANE.  Shall  I  throw  you  a  rope-ladder  and  a  rose  ? 

FANSHAW.  (Jeeringly)  Don't  mistake  me  for 
Mr.  Penfield  Sturgis !  * 

JANE.  (Starting  back  involuntarily)  Horrid! 
(She  disappears  from  the  window.) 

FANSHAW.  (With  a  grin)  I  thought  that  would 
fetch  you!  (He  goes  to  fireplace,  picks  up  cards 
from  tray,  sorts  out  eight  and  carries  them  across  to 
table  c.) 

(JANE  enters  R.D.  She  has  removed  her  cap  and 
negligee  and  is  wearing  a  handsome  house 
gown.) 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  35 

JANE.  (Still  ruffled)  Now  for  God's  sake  spill  it 
out! 

FANSHAW.  (At  L.  side  of  table,  dealing  out  card 
to  her)  Just  read  this. 

JANE.     (Reading  card)     "Mr.  Penfield  Sturgis." 

FANSHAW.  (Dealing  her  another  card)  And 
that? 

JANE.     (Reading  card)     "Mr.  Penfield  Sturgis." 

FANSHAW.     (Dealing  another  card)    And  this  ? 

JANE.  (Reading)  "Mr.  Penfield  Sturgis."  Is  it 
a  chorus  ? 

FANSHAW.  (Dealing  five  more  cards  in  rapid  suc- 
cession) A  chorus  of  eight.  One  for  every  day 
since  you  bearded  him  in  his  vestry ! 

JANE.  (Crossing  to  settle  by  fireplace,  piling  up 
cushions  and  sitting)  If  you're  going  to  be  serious, 
I'm  going  to  be  comfortable.  Another  cushion.  Lyn ! 
(FANSHAW  gets  cushion  from  big  chair  by  table  c.) 
Behind  my  back — behind  my  back!  (FANSHAW 
places  cushion  behind  her  back.)  Now  the  footstool ! 
(FANSHAW  gets  footstool  from  in  front  of  fireplace 
and  sets  it  at  her  feet.  JANE  settles  herself.)  There ! 

FANSHAW.    Is  your  feline  majesty  at  ease? 

JANE.    Yes,  yes — go  on ! 

FANSHAW.  (Sitting  beside  her)  Now,  then,  do 
you  realize  that  this  young  clerical  idiot  is  in  peril  of 
falling  in  love  with  you? 

JANE.  In  love  with  me?  Not  he — that  clerical 
young  icicle! 

FANSHAW.  Oh,  you've  discovered  that  he  is  an 
icicle !  Then  you  have  been  philandering  with  him ! 
What  do  you  mean  by  it? 

JANE.  I  haven't  been  philandering  with  him  any 
more  than  I  have  been  with  you — and  Heaven 
knows 

FANSHAW.  Never  mind  what  Heaven  knows. 
What  are  you  up  to  with  Sturgis? 

JANE.     Showing  him  a  bit  of  my  world. 


36  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

FANSHAW.  Showing  him  a  bit  of  yourself,  you 
mean.  If  you  were  a  younger  woman 

JANE.     Oh,  I'm  young  enough. 

FANSHAW.  You're  not  exactly  a — broiler,  you 
know !  Indian  Summer  has  caught  up  with  both  of 
us! 

JANE.  How  dare  you  say  that?  I  was  in  my 
cradle  when  you  were  in  your  dotage — you  prehis- 
toric monster. 

FANSHAW.  You're  not  in  your  cradle  now.  Pen 
is !  Of  course,  if  you  want  to  rob  the  crib 

JANE.  Oh,  shut  up!  Can't  you  understand  that 
Pen  makes  me  feel  like  a  girl?  He  has  a  way  of 
treating  me  as  if  I  were  his  own  age — I  love  it! 

FANSHAW.  That's  where  his  danger  lies  !  You're 
such  a  ripping  good  actress  that  you  can  assume  even 
youth  and  all  its  charms.  You  fool  Sturgis  com- 
pletely— you  wield  the  power  of  youth;  but  I  can't 
for  the  life  of  me  see  what  satisfaction  you  get  in 
fascinating  a  stubborn,  unbroken  colt ! 

JANE.  (Rising  suddenly  with  a  laugh)  Silly  old 
Lyn !  If  I'd  really  wanted  to  work  my  "power,"  as 
you  call  it,  on  Sturgis,  I'd  have  had  him  jumping 
hurdles  and  "playing  dead"  days  ago!  (Snaps  her 
fingers  in  FANSHAW'S  face  and  goes  to  piano.  She 
sits  facing  the  keyboard.) 

FANSHAW.  (Following  her,  leaning  on  piano, 
facing  JANE  and  the  audience)  What  did  you  want 
with  him? 

JANE.  (Running  her  fingers  over  the  keys)  You 
know  I  always  act  on  impulse? 

FANSHAW.     We'll  call  it  that. 

JANE.  I'll  tell  you.  When  he  gave  me  that  trounc- 
ing in  his  pulpit,  I  couldn't  resist  the  impulse  to  hit 
back. 

FANSHAW.  And  having  hit  back,  why  didn't  you 
retire  from  the  combat? 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  37 

JANE.  Because  he  wouldn't  admit  that  he  was 
wrong. 

FANSHAW.  (Humorously)  So  you  lured  him 
here  to  pick  his  bones. 

JANE.     I'm  going  to  make  him  eat  his  sermon. 

FANSHAW.     Hm !     You'll  season  it,  of  course  ? 

JANE.  A  little  dressing  will  make  it  go  down  more 
easily. 

FANSHAW.  Poor  kid!  He'll  eat  his  sermon  for 
the  sake  of  the  dressing.  It's  bound  to  disagree  with 
him,  Jane.  This  young  man  is  going  to  be  a  mighty 
sick  pup  if  you  don't  let  him  go. 

JANE.  Don't  be  such  a  fluff,  Lyn !  I'm  not  keep- 
ing him ! 

FANSHAW.  You  are — and  it  isn't  straight.  It 
isn't  like  you.  He's  engaged  to  Miss  Darigal — you 
knew  that. 

JANE.  Certainly  I  knew  it !  What  difference  does 
that  make? 

FANSHAW.  In  all  decency  you  should  keep  hands 
off. 

JANE.  (Rising,  angrily,  business  of  going  for 
FANSHAW,  shaking  him,  etc.)  Decency!  You  ac- 
cuse me  of  having  no  sense  of  decency !  Did  Stur- 
gis  have  any  sense  of  decency  when  he  stood  up  in 
his  pulpit  and  pilloried  me?  No,  he  had  not!  But 
before  I'm  through  with  him  he  will.  I'm  not  little 
enough  to  meddle  with  his  little  love  affair,  but  I'm 
big  enough  to  take  pains  to  teach  him — in  my  own 
way — that  I'm  an  artist,  not  the  sinister  female  of 
his  distorted  fancy!  I'm  going  to  teach  him  that  it 
is  asinine  to  confuse  the  character  of  an  artist  with 
the  role  she  sings.  My  only  motive  in  asking  Stur- 
gis  here  has  been  to  beat  those  ideas  into  his  stupid 
brain,  and  I  shall  not  stop  until  I  have  made  him  eat 
every  word  of  his  damned  sermon!  You've  got  to 
believe  that! 

FANSHAW.    (Hurriedly  retreating  to  the  R.  end  of 


38  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

the  piano,  as  though  he  were  frightened  to  death) 
All  right !  All  right !  Don't  eat  me  alive — I  be- 
lieve you,  I  believe  you! 

JANE.  (Sinking  down  in  chair  by  table,  giving  an 
impatient  sigh)  The  energy  I  waste  on  idiots  !  This 
sort  of  thing  takes  more  out  of  me  than  the  longest 
part  in  my  repertoire. 

FANSHAW.  (After  a  pause)  Jane,  you  gave  a 
great  performance  last  night. 

JANE.     You  were  there? 

FANSHAW.    Yes!    So  was  Sturgis. 

JANE.  (Ignoring  his  reference  to  STURGIS)  You 
thought  it  a — fine  performance? 

FANSHAW.  Superb !  Your  last  wriggle  was  the 
poetry  of  perdition !  It  probably  scared  Pen  into  a 
cold  perspiration!  (Coming  from  behind  end  of 
piano)  Really,  in  the  face  of  all  the  row  the  thing's 
made,  I  wonder  you  didn't  tone  down  your  per- 
formance. 

JANE.  (Angrily)  Tone  it  down?  Never!  When 
I'm  compelled  to  do  that,  I'll  throw  up  the  part. 

FANSHAW.  I  wish  you  would.  You're  singing 
too  often.  You  should  husband  your  voice. 

JANE.  (Belligerently)  What's  the  matter  with 
my  voice  ? 

FANSHAW.  Nothing — yet.  It's  a  marvel  of  vel- 
vet and  rainbows — it  is  perfect — it  can't  be  more 
beautiful,  so  one  day  it  will  be — less. 

JANE.     (Anxiously)     How  do  you  know? 

FANSHAW.  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  looking 
down  your  expensive  throat  too  often  of  late.  If 
you're  wise,  you'll  stop  singing  these  trying  roles. 

JANE.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  to  stop  doctoring! 
Yes,  why  don't  you  before  your  legs  give  out  and 
you  have  to  receive  your  patients  in  a  wheel-chair 
with  a  hot-water  bottle  in  your  lap? 

FANSHAW.  I  might  take  your  advice.  In  fact, 
I've  been  thinking  of  it  a  great  deal  lately.  I  have 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  39 

a  jolly  old  place  in  the  country,  with  a  whopping  big 
fireplace.  Some  day  I'm  going  to  light  up  that  fire- 
place for  good  and  all,  but  I'm  not  going  to  do  it 
alone!  (Doorbell  rings  off  L.  Annoyed)  Damn! 

JANE.    That  must  be  Sturgis.    This  is  his  hour. 

FANSHAW.  Ah!  Feeding  time.  The  little  rabbit 
has  come  to  get  a  leaf  of  his  sermon. 

(RAPHAEL,  a  man-servant,  enters  L.D.,  with  card  on 
tray;  presents  it  to  JANE.) 

JANE.  (To  RAPHAEL)  Ask  Mr.  Sturgis  to  come 
in.  (RAPHAEL  exits  L.D.  FANSHAW  is  amused.) 

JANE.  (Looking  at  FANSHAW  with  an  impudent 
smile,  waving  card)  Nine !  (She  drops  card  on 
pile  with  the  others.) 

(PENFIELD  STURGIS  enters  L.D.) 

PENFIELD.  (Looking  at  JANE  as  though  she  were 
a  dangerous  animal,  the  result  of  having  seen  her  the 
night  before  as  "Zaporah")  You  are — at  home? 

JANE.  To  my  rector  and  my  doctor!  (Waves 
hand  in  FANSHAW'S  direction.) 

PENFIELD.  (Showing  relief  at  the  sight  of  FAN- 
SHAW, advancing  c.  to  meet  him)  Oh !  How  are 
you,  Doctor? 

FANSHAW.  (Shaking  PENFIELD'S  hand)  Hello, 
Pen! 

JANE.    Aren't  you  going  to  shake  hands  with  me  ? 

PENFIELD.  (Shaking  JANE'S  hand  warily)  I — I 
only  dropped  in  for  a  moment. 

JANE.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go  in  a  moment. 
But  I  can't  keep  the  Doctor  any  longer ! 

PENFIELD.  (Earnestly,  to  FANSHAW)  Don't  go, 
Doctor. 

JANE.     (To  PENFIELD)     We  must  let  him  go — 


40  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

one  of  his  richest  patients  is  passing  away !    (Sweet- 
ly, to  FANSHAW)     Don't  let  us  keep  you,  Lyn! 

FANSHAW.  (With  sly  humor)  You're  not  keep- 
ing me!  I'm  going.  (With  a  little  bow,  which  in- 
cludes both  PENFIELD  and  JANE,  FANSHAW  exits 

L.D.) 

JANE.  (As  the  door  closes  after  FANSHAW) 
You  were  in  front  last  night,  Mr.  Sturgis. 

PENFIELD.  (Surprised,  backing  away  from  her) 
How  did  you  know? 

JANE.  I  felt  that  you  were  there — on  the  right 
hand  side  of  the  house,  back  of  the  boxes — were 
you  not? 

PENFIELD.  Near  the  steam  radiator — it  knocked 
abominably — just  as  you  came  on  the  stage.  QANE 
goes  to  the  settle  by  the  fireplace  and  sits  L.  side  of 
settle.) 

JANE.  I  heard  it ;  but  I  wasn't  sure  whether  it 
was  you  or  the  radiator.  Come,  tell  me  what  you 
thought  of  me.  (PENFIELD  reluctantly  sits  at  ex- 
treme R.  of  settle.) 

PENFIELD.     I'd  rather  not ! 

JANE.     You  were  shocked? 

PENFIELD.  I — I  was  repelled.  It  was  a  horror — 
a  nauseating  exhibition!  It  sickened  me  to  the  soul. 

JANE.  But  shining  through  all  the  debauchery  is 
the  humanity  of  that  story;  and  I  defy  you  to  ex- 
press more  forcibly  the  universal  lesson  that  the 
clergy  are  forever  dinning  into  our  ears :  "The 
wages  of  sin  are  death!" 

PENFIELD.  I  grant  you  it  teaches  that,  but  by 
such  base  means !  I  felt  outraged  to  see  a  disciple 
subjected  to  the  lustful  overtures  of  a  creature  like 
you. 

JANE.     (With  heat)    You  'mean — Zaporah ! 

PENFIELD.  (Looking  at  her  hesitatingly)  I — I 
suppose  I  do !  (Bell  rings  off  stage  L.) 

JANE.    (Throwing  up  her  hands  in  anger  and  itn- 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  41 

patience  as  she  rises)  Good  Lord !  You  have  been 
here  every  day  for  a  week.  I've  introduced  you  to 
any  number  of  artists.  You  liked  them.  You  said 
so.  I  thought  you  seemed  to  be  understanding  us. 
You  were  even  beginning  to  treat  me  as  a  friend, 
and  I — I  was  beginning  to  think  of  you  as  a  human 
being.  I  was  hoping  that  you  were  used  to  me  by 
this  time,  that  you  had  lost  your  prejudice  against 
me.  In  fact,  we  were  getting  on  so  splendidly  that  I 
felt  at  last  you  could  be  trusted  to  go  and  see  "Za- 
porah."  Well,  I  send  you !  But  you  return  from 
that  opera  still  obsessed  with  the  idea  that  I  am  that 
infernal  woman.  If  you  had  seen  me  as  Carmen, 
Brunhilda,  Madam  Butterfly,  Tosca — any  one  or  all 
of  them — in  Heaven's  name  what  sort  of  an  animal 
would  you  think  me  then?  (Taking  the  stage,  ges- 
ticulating, spluttering  with  exasperation)  Oh,  I — I 
have  no  patience  with  you.  Really,  I — I  don't  know 
what  I'll  do  with  you. 

PEN  FIELD.  Would  to  God  I  could  get  that  pic- 
ture of  you  out  of  my  mind.  (With  a  transition) 
Have  patience  with  me ! 

JULIE.  (Without)  Madam  is  engaged.  One  mo- 
ment. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Without)  Never  mind,  you 
needn't  announce  me ! 

JULIE.  (Without,  protesting)  But  Madam — do 
not  push  me  like  that !  (Commotion  heard  without 

L.) 

JANE.  (Listening)  Someone  is  trying  to  break 
in! 

(MRS.  KEARSLEY  enters  L.D.,  smiling  and  trium- 
phant. She  is  elaborately  costumed.  JULIE  fol- 
lows her,  ruffled,  angry,  explaining  in  panto- 
mime  to  JANE  that  she  could  not  prevent  MRS. 
KEARSLEY  from,  entering.) 


42  THE  TONGUES   OF   MEN 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Rattling  away  as  she  seizes 
JANE'S  hand)  At  last  I've  found  you  in!  I  don't 
know  how  many  times  I've  called,  my  dear  Miss 

Bartlett!  I'd  almost  despaired OANE  frees 

her  hand  from  MRS.  KEARSLEY'S  grasp.) 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Without  pausing,  turns  to 
PENFIELD  and  takes  his  hand)  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Sturgis!  I  saw  you  last  night  at  the  opera.  (To 
JANE)  Such  a  victory  for  you,  my  dear — our  rec- 
tor's presence  there — and  here!  (To  PENDLETON) 
You  see,  we  shouldn't  judge  these  things  until  we've 
seen  them — should  we?  And  you  know  I — I  was  in- 
clined— just  for  a  moment — to  agree  with  you — but 

after  all (Breaking  off  and  starting  all  over 

again,  for  an  instant  uncertain  as  to  PENFIELD'S  at- 
titude.) You — were  impressed? 

JANE.    (Quickly)     Decidedly ! 

PENFIELD.     But 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Interrupting)  Naturally,  or 
he  wouldn't  have  stayed. 

PENFIELD.    I  stayed  because 

JANE.  (Cutting  in)  He  didn't  want  to  miss  a 
note. 

PENFIELD.    I  was  bound  to  hear  it  to  the  end. 

JANE.  (Interrupting)  And  he  came  here  to-day 
to  tell  me  just  what  he  thought  of  it.  We've  had  a 
delightful  chat  about  it. 

PENFIELD.  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  put  it  that 
way. 

JANE.  No,  no — it  was  very  good  of  you  to  say 
such  kind  things  about  my  performance. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Who  has  been  fretting  to  get  in 
a  word,  and  who  is  impressed  by  the  belief  that  PEN- 
FIELD  approves  of  the  opera)  How  could  he  help 
himself?  You  were  so  perfectly  fascinating,  my 
dear!  Such  poetry,  such  passion!  I  was  literally 
carried  away !  You  know,  I  thought  it  a  shame  you 
had  to  be  killed,  but  I  suppose  you  deserved  it. 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  43 

JANE.  (Laconically)  Thank  you — you're  more 
than  kind. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Dropping  into  easy  chair  L. 
side  of  c.  table)  What  a  comfortable  chair — (Look- 
ing around) — and  what  a  lovely  room !  (Lays  her 
muff  on  the  table,  throws  furs  over  arm  of  cJmir  and 
unbuttons  coat.  JANE  sits  on  end  of  piano  bench. 
PENFIELD  sits  on  R.  of  settle  L.C.  To  JANE)  I 
wonder  if  you'd  like  to  sing  something  for  me? 

JANE.  (Sarcastically)  Delighted!  (Consider- 
ing) I  think  I  can  give  you  a  date  in  February.  My 
fee  is  two  thousand  dollars. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Taken  aback)  Why — I — I 
didn't  mean  anything  so — so  elaborate  as  a  concert. 
I  only  thought  that — perhaps — you'd  like  to  dash  off 
a  little  aria  for  me — now. 

JANE.  You'll  have  to  excuse  me.  I  don't  dash  off 
little  arias. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Oh,  I  understand.  You're  not 
in  the  mood  to-day.  Well — some  other  time.  (To 
PENFIELD)  You're  a  very  lucky  young  man  to  have 
the  entree  here. 

PENFIELD.  I  appreciate  my  good  fortune,  I  assure 
you. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  This  is  certainly  an  age  of  pro- 
gress. Here  we  have  the  stage  and  the  church  on 
intimate  terms.  (PENFIELD  is  visibly  uncomfortable 
during  the  following.)  People  may  talk — but  as  long 

as  Miss  Darigal  doesn't  mind (To  JANE)  I 

hear  you're  showing  Mr.  Sturgis  a  bit  of  the  world ! 
It  makes  me  think  of  one  of  those  sight-seeing  auto 
affairs ! 

JANE.  Yes !  I'm  the  creature  who  stands  on  the 
top  of  the  bus  with  a  megaphone! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  With  your  perfectly  marvelous 
voice  singing  out  the  points  of  interest — you'd  have 
the  whole  city  following  you. 

PENFIELD.     Ah,  yes!     They'd   follow  her — (Bit- 


44  THE  TONGUES   OF   MEN 

terly) — through  the  mud!  (JANE  raises  her  eye- 
brows, makes  him  a  serio-comic  bow.) 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.    What  a  passionate  compliment! 

JANE.  Oh,  he's  been  sizzling  with  that  sort  of 
thing  for  the  last  hour. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Have  I  been  here  an  hour?  I 
only  meant  to  stay  five  minutes!  (Picking  up  furs 
and  rising.)  Anyway,  I've  interrupted  your  tete-a- 
tete  long  enough !  (Shaking  JANE'S  hand)  Good- 
bye. So  sweet  of  you  to  receive  me.  I'll  drop  in 
again — now  that  I've  found  the  way. 

JANE.    I  never  expect  to  be  at  home  again. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Laughing)  I'm  not  taking 
that  seriously.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Sturgis.  I'm  sure 
you'll  be  very  wise  before  Miss  Bartlett  gets  through 
with  you.  (PENFIELD  bows  to  MRS.  KEARSLEY,  who 
exits  L.D.J 

JANE.  (Turning  to  PENFIELD)  Sensitive  little 
woman — your  friend,  Mrs.  Kearsley. 

PENFIELD.  You  may  jeer  at  her,  but  she's  a 
pretty  good  sort,  after  all.  She  represents  a  large 
part  of  my  congregation. 

JANE.  And  I'm  sure  she  expresses  the  opinions 
of  the  sphere  in  which  she  revolves  so  rapidly. 

PENFIELD.     She  defended  you. 

JANE.    I  hope  you  were  impressed. 

PENFIELD.     I  was. 

JANE.  Then  why  did  you  break  out  in  that  horrid 
way  against  me? 

PENFIELD.  Because  I  saw  you  in  my  mind  pilot- 
ing that  vulgar,  sight-seeing  automobile — your  thrill- 
ing voice  vaunting  through  the  streets,  your  person 
and  your  song  alike  a  menace  to  the  souls  of  the 
men  who  run  after  you  in  the  gutters ;  and  though 
they  might  not  touch  you,  they  would  have  sinned  in 
their  minds  a  hundred  times. 

JANE.     That  is  all  in  your  morbid  fancy. 

PENFIELD.     No!     I   felt,  as  I  watched  you  last 


THE   TONGUES   OF    MEN  45 

night,  that  when  you  tempted  Judas  you  tempted 
every  man  who  saw  you.  They  sinned  in  their 
minds.  (Bell  rings  off  stage  L.) 

JANE.  (Rising,  distressed,  wondering)  What 
have  I  done  to  you  ?  You  poor,  foolish  boy !  I 
was  wrong  to  send  you  to  that  performance!  I 
didn't  realize  how  morbidly  sensitive  you  are — and 
you're  getting  worse  and  worse !  I  must  sweep  these 
lunatic  ideas  out  of  your  head.  I  will  do  it — I  will 
do  it! 

(JULIE  enters  and  shows  in  SEPULVEDA  at  L.D.  He 
is  a  pale,  thin  young  Spaniard  whose  clothes 
look  as  though  he  had  slept  in  them.) 

SEPULVEDA.  (Entering  impulsively,  and  catching 
hold  of  both  of  JANE'S  hands  and  kissing  them)  Ah, 
Senorita — I  am  mad  as  a  hat — with  joy !  It  is  come 
— I  have  captured  it ! 

JANE.  (Seising  SEPULVEDA  by  the  lapels  of  his 
coat  and  looking  searchingly  into  his  face)  You  look 
half-starved !  What  have  you  been  doing  to  your 
wretched  self  ? 

SEPULVEDA.  (With  a  boyish  laugh)  I  am  starve 
altogether!  (Excitedly)  But  what  that  matter! 
(Clapping  his  hands  together,  ecstatically)  I  have 
got  it — the  motif !  (Sings  a  snatch  of  music)  Lala- 
lala !  You  hear  it  through  the  dance  music — just 
before  Chita  makes  the  grand  entrance !  The  cym- 
bals !  Zing !  (Claps  his  hands  like  cymbals.)  She 
is  on!  The  motif!  (Singing)  La.  la,  lum,  te,  te, 

ta,  ta !  The  violins  take  it  up !  The  castanets 

(Imitates  castanets.)  I  am  goin'  for  to  make  me  a 
new  instrument.  I  have  already  experiment  with  a 
file  and  a  tin  cracker-box.  Oh,  magnificent! — to 
represent  the  pain  in  the  heart  of  the  Count  when  he 
firs'  look  at  the  dancer!  You  like  the  motif?  Si! 
Si! 


46  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

JANE.  (Enthusiastically)  Splendid!  I  can  hear 
myself  singing  it!  (With  a  transition)  Now  you 
must  have  something  to  eat !  Call  Julie  for  me. 

SEPULVEDA.  (Singing)  Julie !  (A  little  run  and 
a  iriu — then  on  a  higher  note)  Julie !  (Another  run 
and  a  trill — at  the  top-note  of  his  highest  register) 
Julie !  (Then  with  a  swift  descent  to  the  lowest  note 
possible)  Julie!  (He  makes  a  grotesque  bow  to 
JANE;  stops  short,  seeing  PENFIELD,  who  has  re- 
treated to  the  fireplace,  wonder-struck  at  the  actions 
of  SEPULVEDA.) 

JANE.  (Introducing  them)  Mr.  Sturgis,  this  is 
Senor  Sepulveda — he  is  writing  an  opera  for  me! 
(The  men  shake  hands.) 

(JULIE  enters  R.D.) 

JANE.  (To  JULIE)  Julie,  bring  some  lunch — on 
a  tray  for  the  Senor!  ( JULIE  exits  R.D.) 

SEPULVEDA.  (Ceremoniously,  to  PENFIELD)  It 
is  a  pleasure  to  meet  a  friend  of  the  Senorita. 

PENFIELD.     (Politely)     The  pleasure  is  mutual. 

SEPULVEDA.    You  hear  that  motif — little  bit  ago? 

PENFIELD.    Very  interesting,  I'm  sure. 

SEPULVEDA.  (Enthusiastically)  Ah !  but  wait — 
wait  until  you  hear  the  whole  damn  score!  (Starts 
for  piano.) 

JANE.  (Stopping  him)  But  Mr.  Sturgis  may  not 
care  to  hear  the  whole  "damn"  score. 

PENFIELD.  (Smiling)  I  should  be  most  happy  to 
hear  it ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Resisting  the  temptation)  No! 
No!  I  forget!  (Laughing  at  himself)  I  am  so 
crazy,  you  know!  But  who  would  not  be  so?  To 
compose  a  grande  opera  for  the  bella  prima  donna ! 
Of  course  you  have  heard  her  seeng  (sing),  Senor? 

PENFIELD.    Yes,  I've  heard  her  sing! 

SEPULVEDA.     Well — well — well — then  you  under- 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  47 

stan' — there  is  nothing  to  talk  about!  What  an 
artiste — she  jump  into  the  character  and  turn  it  in- 
side out  for  you !  And  the  voice — the  voice !  Madre 
de  Dios !  I  could  drink  that  voice ! 

JANE.  (Patting  SEPULVEDA  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder)  Bless  his  heart !  I  shall  sing  his  music 
for  him ! 

(Enter  JULIE  R.D.  with  a  tray  of  tiny  sandwiches, 
olives,  small  cakes  covered  with  pink  sugar.) 

SEPULVEDA.  (To  PENFIELD)  You  hear  that, 
Senor?  But  no  matter — I  want  no  witness — no  con- 
tract— that  promise  is  as  true  as  the  notes  she  seeng 
(sing). 

JANE.  (Looking  at  tray,  then  angrily  to  JULIE) 
Take  it  away — he  doesn't  want  that  pink-tea  stuff — 
he  must  have  real  food.  Clear  out ! 

JULIE.     (Confused,  backing  away)     Oh,  Madam! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Deftly  picking  a  sandwich  from  the 
tray)  Pardon  me ! 

JANE.  (To  SEPULVEDA)  You  amuse  Mr.  Stur- 
gis.  I'll  go  get  you  something  fit  to  eat.  (Shooing 
JULIE  out  R.D.  and  folloiving  her.)  Allez-vous-en — 
vite,  vite ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Taking  a  bite  of  the  sandwich,  to 
PENFIELD)  You  see  what  she  is  like!  Always  the 
sam' !  She  pick  me  out  of  the  gutter  like  the  pup- 
dog,  by  the  nip  of  the  neck.  I  was  jus'  the  little 
fiddle  at  the  Cafe  Rouge.  She  has  the  fine  ear — 
same  as  the  heart.  She  hear  my  soul  speak  in  the 
fiddle.  She  get  me  the  job  in  the  beeg  orchestra  at 
the  opera.  Now,  Dios!  I  am  the  composer! 
Pretty  soon,  mebbe,  I  lead  that  sam'  orchestra — my- 
self— with  my  own  opera !  (Waving  sandwich,  sing- 
ing and  imitating  a  conductor.) 

PENFIELD.  (Sitting  in  easy  chair  L.  of  c.  table) 
What  is  the  theme  of  your  opera? 


48  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

SEPULVEDA.  (Sitting  on  the  R.  corner  of  the  table) 
The  theme  ?  Ah !  (Illustrating  with  many  gestures) 
It  is  this :  A  great  Duke  loses  his  heart  to  the  pic- 
ture of  a  most  beautiful  lady.  But  the  picture  is 
not  enough!  No!  He  must  have  the  lady  herself— 
to  marry  her!  He  say  to  his  best  friend,  the  Count 
Machemba  de  Raimundo:  "You  go  get  me  these 
lady  wherever  she  reside."  The  Count  go  to  Gran- 
ada— he  finds  the  beautiful  lady  of  the  picture.  She 
is  Chita,  the  dancing  girl.  And  then — what  you 
theenk? — she  falls  in  love  with  him!  You  should 
hear  the  passion  of  my  music  there — crescendo — the 
violins !  The  Count,  he  cannot  resist  her.  She  is 
tempestuoso !  He  forget  the  Duke,  his  honor,  every- 
thing. They  belong  to  each  other!  He  is  hers — she 
is  his  !  Is  that  not  original — dramatique  ? 

PENFIELD.  I  suppose  so ;  but  why  is  it  that  you 
opera  composers  always  choose  as  your  heroine — 
women  who  are — eh — frail? 

SEPULVEDA.  (Puzzled)  F-frail — f-rail?  What 
is  that? 

PENFIELD.     Women  who  sin ! 

SEPULVEDA.  Ah!  That  is  where  you  get  the 
emotion — and  without  emotion — what  is  music? 

PENFIELD.  Still,  I  should  think  you  might  find 
emotion  in  a  more  moral  theme. 

SEPULVEDA.  It  is  plain  you  are  not  a  musician. 
Love  is  the  basis  of  it  all.  See  how  I  sound  the 
heart :  In  my  opera,  the  Duke  hear  that  the  lovers 
fly  to  Seville.  He  follow  them.  He  find  them  sing- 
ing a  love  duet  in  the  garden.  That  is  the  most 
passionate  music  of  all.  The  Duke  cries :  "Traitor, 
you  have  betrayed  me!"  He  draws  his  dagger  and 
stabs  him  in  the  heart.  Poor  Chita  shrieks  and  kills 
herself  also,  and  falls  on  the  body  of  her  lover. 
The  Duke  falls  on  his  knees  and  swear  to  give  them 
a  magnificent  funeral. 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  49 

PENFIELD.  You  always  kill  them  off  at  the  end, 
don't  you? 

SEPULVEDA.  Certainly  !  Death — ah !  that  is  the 
last  grand  emotion  of  them  all!  An'  in  opera  you 
cannot  have  them  die  jus'  because  they  have  been 
making  eyes  at  each  other  for  three  or  four  acts ! 

PENFIELD.  To  play  a  character,  like  your  Chita, 
to  play  it  well — to  make  it  real,  convincing — must 
not  the  singer  have  had  some  experience  ? 

SEPULVEDA.     (Laughing)     No,  no,  no! 

PENFIELD.  Then  she  must  be  herself  like  that 
character  she  portrays ! 

SEPULVEDA.  No,  no,  no!  The  devil,  if  he  was  an 
artist,  could  play  the  angel — or  the  angel,  if  she  was 
the  artist,  could  play  the  devil ! 

(Enter  JANE  R.D.  with  a  tray  bearing  a  generous  slice 
of  cold  meat,  a  bowl  of  salad,  a  rack  of  toast, 
butter,  pot  of  coffee,  etc.) 

SEPULVEDA.  (Indicating  JANE)  You  have  saw 
what  a  magnificent  devil  that  angel  make !  (Noting 
the  tray)  Santissima (Takes  tray  from  JANE.J 

JANE.    How  have  you  two  been  getting  on  ? 

SEPULVEDA.  (Taking  tray  down  to  tea-table  by 
fireplace)  We  have  been  having  a  most  interesting 
conversation ! 

JANE.  You  must  have  been  talking  about  your- 
self !  Not  another  word  until  you  have  polished  off 
the  tray ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Sitting  on  chair  lower  side  of  fire- 
place with  back  to  the  audience,  waving  napkin  zvhilc 
JANE  moves  the  table  close  to  the  chair)  Angelita! 
I  shall  eat  even  the  serviette ! 

PENFIELD.  (Coming  down  to  piano,  leaning 
against  it)  What  I  should  like  to  know  is — how  you 
artists  manage  to  turn  yourselves  into  angels  or  dev- 
ils without  being  one  or  the  other? 


50  THE  TONGUES   OF   MEN 

SEPULVEDA.  (While  he  attacks  his  luncheon) 
Everybody  has  some  little  bit  of  the  angel  or  devil 
in  hisself — even  you,  Senor!  That  gives  us  the  in- 
stinct— the  guide.  The  rest  comes  from  what  we 
find  in  life  around  us — picked  from  every  sense  we 
have  got — the  eye,  the  ear,  the  taste,  the  touch, — 
even  the  smell ! 

JANE.    And  piece  it  all  together — illuminate  it  with 


our  genius 


SEPULVEDA.     Si !     Si !     Si ! 

PENFIELD.  (To  SEPULVEDA)  Has  the  personal 
character  of  a  singer  no  relation  whatever  to  the  role 
she  assumes  ? 

SEPULVEDA.  (Laughing)  You  are  droll !  (With 
a  look  at  JANE)  Is  he  not?  (To  PENFIELD)  An 
artist  like  the  Senorita  there — she  put  on  and  off  a 
character  like  you  do  your  coat ! 

(Enter  RAPHAEL  L.D.J 

RAPHAEL.  Will  Madam  see  Madam  Sternburg- 
Reese  ? 

JANE.  Yes,  yes,  yes — you  imbecile !  At  once ! 
(JANE  rises,  goes  up  c.) 

(RAPHAEL  shows  in  at  L.D.  MADAM  STERNBURG- 
REESE,  a  large  woman,  operatic  contralto  type, 
with  a  rich  speaking  voice  and  German  accent.) 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  Jane,  I  have  brought 
somebody  to  see  you.  You  are  too  busy — yes  ? 

JANE.    No,  no!    Come  in. 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  (Speaking  to  some- 
one without)  Come,  my  child — do  not  be  afraid ! 
(MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE  enters,  leading  by  the 
hand  WINIFRED  LEEDS,  a  young,  slender  American 
girl,  in  a  neat  but  unfashionable  ready-made  suit  and 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  51 

poor  furs.  At  the  sight  of  her,  JANE  frowns.) 
They  have  discharged  her ! 

JANE.    I  should  hope  so !     Take  her  away ! 

WINIFRED.  (To  MADAM)  You  see  it  is  no  use — 
(She  starts  tozvards  L.D.J 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  (Stopping  her)  You 
wait!  Jane — if  you  just  speak  one  word  for  her, 
they  will  put  her  back  in  the  chorus. 

JANE.     I  absolutely  refuse! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  Now,  Jane,  be  a 
good  girl — forgive  the  child ! 

JANE.  (Indignant)  Hah !  Forgive  her (To 

SEPULVEDA,  who  is  busily  eating)  Do  you  know 
what  that  little  beast  did? 

SEPULVEDA.  (Musically)  What  did  she  did? 
What  did  she  did  ? 

JANE.  She  ruined  the  garden  scene  for  me  on 
Thursday  night! 

SEPULVEDA.  Oh!  Maledito!  She  is  the  insig- 
nificant wretch  who  took  the  jewels  from  the  casket? 

JANE.  (Excitedly)  I  should  say  she  was !  Just 
imagine — my  feelings — when  I  opened  the  casket — 

found  it  empty How — how  could  I  sing  the 

"jewel  song"  then?  Oh — oh — I — I 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  (Soothing  JANE) 
Jane,  Jane,  Jane !  She  is  most  sorry — she  begs  to 
be  forgiven. 

JANE.  Never!  Never!  (To  SEPULVEDA)  You 
know  she  only  confessed  when  they  were  on  the 
point  of  dismissing  the  property-man.  Hah,  hah — 
she  must  be  in  love  with  him! 

WINIFRED.  (Coldly)  I  am  not  in  love  with  the 
property-man ! 

JANE.  (Angrily)  Why — why  did  you  do  such  a 
thing?  I  thought  I  should  lose  my  mind — God! 

WINIFRED.     I  was  jealous  of  you! 

JANE.  Jealous  of  me !  (Laughing  with  contempt) 
You!  Hah!  Hah! 


52  THE  TONGUES   OF   MEN 

WINIFRED.  Yes!  You  are  so  successful!  I  am 
only  one  of  the  chorus !  I  wanted  to  see  you  fail — 
just  once!  Oh,  I  was  mad! 

SEPULVEDA.  It  was  her  temperament !  Hah,  hah ! 
She  ought  to  be  a  prima  donna ! 

JANE.    (To  SEPULVEDA)     Shut  up! 

SEPULVEDA.    I  am  shut !     (Eats  busily.) 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  Jane,  if  you  don't 
forgive  her,  you  will  ruin  her  career! 

JANE.    Career !     That  have  a  career ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  She  has  a  voice — a 
pretty,  nice,  liddle  voice!  Perhaps  if  you  hear  that 
voice 

JANE.     I  will  not  hear  it. 

SEPULVEDA.  (Jumping  up  and  going  to  the  piano) 
Let  me  hear  it ! 

JANE.     (Angrily)     Sepulveda,  sit  down! 

PENFIELD.  (Who  has  been  standing  by  the  piano, 
an  interested  listener)  Why  not  hear  her  voice  ? 

JANE.  (Turning  on  him  with  a  flash  of  anger  at 
first — then  pausing  with  a  shrug  as  she  looks  at  him) 
It  will  do  her  no  good — it  will  not  influence  me  in  the 
least!  (She  sails  up  stage  and  exits  R.D.) 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  (To  WINIFRED) 
Come,  child!  She  has  shut  the  door,  but  she  will 
listen.  She  is  more  growl  than  she  is — bite !  (She 
pushes  WINIFRED  toward  the  piano,  smiles  at  PEN- 
FIELD,  who  turns  up  to  the  table  c.,  and  drops  on 
settle  by  fireplace  L.  PENFIELD  leans  against  table 
c.) 

SEPULVEDA.  (Who  has  seated  himself  at  the  key- 
board and  now  strikes  a  few  chords)  Now — what 
shall  it  be,  Senorita  ? 

WINIFRED.  You  know  "The  Land  of  the  Sky- 
Blue  Water"? 

SEPULVEDA.  I  know  everything — I  am  a  compos- 
er! (He  plays.  WINIFRED  sings  the  song  simply, 
with  a  sweet  voice.) 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  53 

(As  she  sings,  JANE  opens  R.D.  slowly  and  stands 
there  listening,  surprised  at  the  girl's  voice.  As 
the  song  finishes,  JANE  comes  down  to  her 
quickly.) 

JANE.  (With  indignation)  It  is  an  outrage !  How 
dare  you  sing  a  note  before  you  know  how  to  pro- 
duce a  tone !  (General  amazement.) 

WINIFRED.     (Despondently)     But,  Madam,  I 

JANE.  You  don't  know  how  to  sing!  Your  voice 
isn't  placed !  It  must  be  trained !  (All  are  amazed 
and  puzzled.) 

WINIFRED.    Trained? 

JANE.  Yes,  imbecile — before  you  ruin  it!  Yes, 
yes,  you  have  a  real  voice — it  is  there !  But  the  way 
you  use  it !  You  must  have  taught  yourself  ! 

WINIFRED.  Madam  !  Then  you  will  speak  a  good 
word  for  me — you  will  help  me  to  get  my  place  in 
the  chorus  again  ? 

JANE.  I  will  not !  You  shall  not  open  your  mouth ! 
You  must  be  taught  to  sing !  You  will  have  to  work, 
work,  work ! 

WINIFRED.  I  cannot  afford  it — I  have  my  living 
to  make. 

JANE.  You  have  your  voice  to  make !  (Turning 
to  MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.J  I  think  Ansaldi  is 
the  man  for  her ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  Very  good,  very 
good !  There  is  no  one  like  him — he  is  the  one ! 

SEPULVEDA.  No,  no,  no!  Ansaldi  is  too  expen- 
sive— she  should  have  Michel  Clarke ! 

JANE.  (Indignantly)  Michel  Qarke!  Pooh!  I 
wouldn't  let  that  man  teach  my  cat ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  Ansaldi  is  the  best. 
His  method  of  breath  control Ah! 

JANE.  He  taught  me!  (To  WINIFRED,)  You 
shall  go  to  Ansaldi ! 

WINIFRED.    But  he  is  in  London 


54  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

JANE.    What  of  that?    Don't  you  like  London? 

WINIFRED.  I've  never  been  there — and  I  can't  af- 
ford to  go — and  if  I  could — there  is  my  mother — I 
couldn't  leave  her  alone. 

JANE.  Then  take  her  with  you.  I  will  write  to 
Ansaldi — arrange  with  him  for  your  lessons — what- 
ever you  need  for  your  expenses 

WINIFRED.  Oh,  thank  you,  Madam,  but  I  could 
not  accept  money  from  you. 

JANE.  (Angrily)  You  donkey !  You  have  a  fine 
sense  of  honor!  You  could  spoil  my  scene — you 
could  take  those  jewels  from  my  casket — but  you 
cannot  take  my  money !  Bah ! 

WINIFRED.   I  hoped  you  had  forgiven  me  for  that ! 

JANE.    I  have  not ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.    Ah,  Jane 

JANE.  What!  She  insults  me  by  refusing  my 
help! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  (To  WINIFRED) 
You  could  always  pay  her  back. 

JANE.  I  should  hope  so !  W7hat  are  the  few  thou- 
sands I  shall  advance  to  her  now.  Nothing !  Noth- 
ing !  In  three  years  she  will  be  getting  her  thousand 
dollars  a  night  for  singing  Madam  Butterfly ! 

WINIFRED.  (To  JANE)  If  you  really  think  I'll 
ever  be  able  to  pay  you  back,  I'll  be  very  grateful  for 
your  help ! 

JANE.  That  settles  it!  (Goes  to  table  c.,  opens 
drawer,  takes  out  check-book  and  sits.) 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  Jane,  you  must  let  me 
help! 

JANE.  (Writing  in  check-book)  You !  Gertrude ! 
With  your  ten  children ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.     Nine !     My  dear ! 

JANE.  Well,  there  will  probably  be  another  in  the 
middle  of  the  season ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  You  can  always  have 
the  season — but  you  cannot  always  have  the  children. 


THE   TONGUES   OF    MEN  55 

JANE.  (To  PENFIELD,  as  she  tears  check  from  her 
book)  Madam  has  a  whole  opera  troop  of  her  own ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  The  are  like  so  many 
birds. 

PENFIELD.  I  should  say  that  was  the  best  kind  of 
music. 

SEPULVEDA.  Especially  when  they  are  all  singing 
at  once,  each  in  a  different  key — as  they  all  do.  Ah, 
they  drive  me  crazy. 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  It  is  better  music 
than  you  can  make — you  nasty  little  Dago ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Indignantly)  I  am  not  a  Dago !  I 
am  the  purest  Castilian! 

JANE.  (Rising,  check  in  hand)  I  tell  you  what 
you  can  do,  Gertrude.  See  that  this  girl — (Indicat- 
ing WINIFRED^ — has  what  she  needs  in  the  way  of 
clothes.  (Hands  check  to  MADAM  STERNBURG- 
REESE.J 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  (Examining  WINI- 
FRED'S shirt  waist)  Himmel !  You  will  die !  (To 
JANEJ  She  must  have  plenty  of  warm  union-suits ! 
— (Feeling  WINIFRED'S  skirt) — and  flannel  petti- 
coats— woolen  stockings ! 

JANE.    God  help  her ! 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  And  two  nice  thick 
tweed  gowns ! 

JANE.  Bon  Dieu !  Don't  dress  her  like  yourself. 
Get  her  something  pretty — and  don't  forget  a  pair  of 
good  corsets !  (Studying  WINIFRED.,)  A  girl  with 
eyes  like  that  should  have  a  gorgeous  evening  gown 
of  gold  and  violet — and  if  she  must  be  warm,  get  her 
a  fur  coat. 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  Ach  Gott,  the  next 
thing  you  will  want  me  to  buy  for  her  is  a  limousine ! 
I  refuse !  1  refuse ! 

JANJE.  You'll  do  what  I  say;  and  pack  her  off  di- 
rectly! 


5  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

WINIFRED.     (To   JANE,)     Oh,   how  can  I   thank 


you 


JANE.  Don't  thank  me — thank  your  voice.  Now 
out  with  you  all !  (  SEPULVEDA  starts  for  the  L.D. 
PENFIELD  stirs  himself  uncertainly.) 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  You  are  a  dear  girl, 
Jane! 

JANE.  (Patting  her  on  the  cheek  and  going  with 
her  towards  L.oJ  Give  my  love  to  all  the  little  Stern- 
birds  ! 

WINIFRED.  (To  JANEJ  Oh,  you  must  let  me  tell 
you  how  generous,  and  kind 

JANE.  Stop  that !  (Giving  WINIFRED  her  hand.) 
Good  luck  to  you — write  me  sometimes !  (WINIFRED 
emotionally  seizes  JANE'S  hand  and  kisses  it.  JANE, 
moved,  draws  WINIFRED  suddenly  into  her  amis; 
the  girl  cries  on  JANE'S  shoulder.  PENFIELD  and  SE- 
PULVEDA shake  hands.) 

MADAM  STERNBURG-REESE.  (Wiping  her  eyes) 
Ach,  that  Jane !  Isn't  she  made  of  gold  ?  (Sharply, 
to  WINIFREDJ  Child !  Stop  your  blubbering !  Come 
on!  (Takes  WINIFRED  away  from  JANE  and  exits 
with  her  L.D.J 

SEPULVEDA.  (To  JANE,  bowing  over  her  hand) 
Gracias,  Senorita!  You  have  provide  the  feast  for 
the  body — also  the  soul.  We  laugh — we  cry — I  am 
so  played  upon  I  feel  like  a  fiddle !  Madre  de  Dios, 
what  a  woman  you  are!  How  I  love  you!  (Sing- 
ing, "lum,  turn,  tiddle,  de,  de,  ta,  ta,"  SEPULVEDA  ex- 
its L.D.j 

PENFIELD.  (About  to  go,  to  JANE,)  Who  is  that 
woman? 

JANE.    The  big,  mothering  hen  ? 

PENFIELD.  Yes — there's  something  familiar  about 
her. 

JANE.    That's  Madam  Sternburg-Reese. 

PENFIELD.    Who  is  she? 

JANE.     The   greatest    dramatic   contralto    in    the 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  57 

world!  You  saw  her  last  night (Laughing) 

She  sings  Chorazina — the  wicked  mother  of  Za- 
porah. 

PENFIELD.     (Thunderstruck)     She? 

JANE.    (Mimicking  him)    Yes —  she  I 

PENFIELD.  (Dazed)  But  she's  an  awfully  good 
sort! 

JANE.     (Smiling)     Am  I  any  worse  than  she  is? 

PENFIELD.  (Looking  at  her;  studying  her  for  a 
moment,  then  in  a  low  voice)  I'm  afraid  I've  been 
a  fool — I'm  afraid  I've  been  a  fool !  (Pause.)  Yes ! 
I  have — absolutely  a  fool! 

JANE.  (Smiling)  Not  absolutely.  And  one  may 
always  change. 

PENFIELD.  I've  been  worse  than  a  fool ;  I've  been 
unjust.  Oh,  the  things  I've  said  about  you!  They 
all  come  back  and  hammer  on  my  brain.  I  can't 
think — I  can  only  wonder — at  your  patience  with  me. 

JANE.  (Excitedly)  My  patience !  Hah !  I  won- 
der at  it!  (With  a  transition)  But  it's  all  right — 
you  were  bound  to  see !  Don't  take  it  so  tragically ! 

PENFIELD.  Oh,  that's  like  you — you're  so  kind,  so 
generous,  so  forgiving — I  should  have  seen  the  angel 
in  you ! 

JANE.  (With  a  laugh)  I  had  horns  and  a  tail  an 
hour  ago — now  I've  got  wings — don't  give  me  a 
harp !  (She  puts  out  her  hand  to  him.) 

PENFIELD.  (Taking  her  hand  in  both  of  his)  I 
don't  mind  your  laughing  at  me.  I  wish  I  could  give 
you  something — I  wish  I  could  do  something  for 
you! 

JANE.  (Letting  her  hand  remain  in  his)  My 
dear,  you  have  done  something  for  me — you've  given 
me  your  friendship!  The  times  we've  sat  here  to- 
gether and  talked  of — of  cabbages  and  kings !  Your 
active  youth  summoned  my  youth  from  the  past ! 

PENFIELD.      (Surprised)      Your   youth!      Why, 


58  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

you're  as  young  as  I  am !     (JANE  is  enchanted.)    In 
fact — you're  no  age  at  all ! 

JANE.  You're  a  very  dear  boy!  (She  gives  his 
hand  a  pat  and  turns  away  from  him.  The  L.D.  is 
open.) 

(HERMAN  GEIST,  the  manager  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  Company,  appears  at  the  door.  He  is  a 
cultivated  Hebrew  of  fifty — well-dressed,  but 
not  loudly.  There  is  a  suspicion  of  accent  in 
his  voice.) 


JANE.  (Going  to  GEIST — shaking  hands  with  him) 
Come  in,  Herman ! 

GEIST.    I  do  not  intrude  ? 

JANE.  Oh,  no!  (To  PENFIELD,)  Mr.  Geist,  my 
manager — Mr.  Sturgis  !  (Introduces  them.) 

GEIST.  (Shaking  hands  with  PENFIELD)  Mr. 
Sturgis?  Not  Mr.  Penfield  Sturgis  of  St.  Martin's- 
in-the-Lane  ? 

PENFIELD.     (Embarrassed)     Why — yes ! 

GEIST.    Ah,  you  don't  say !  Well !    Well ! 

JANE.    (Impatiently)    Yes,  yes ! 

GEIST.    Hum-hum ! 

PENFIELD.  I've  an  engagement — I  must  be  go- 
ing. 

GEIST.    Couldn't  you  give  me — five  minutes  ? 

PENFIELD.  (Puzzled,  with  a  look  at  JANE,)  Why 
— yes,  if  you — like ! 

GEIST.    May  we  sit  down,  Jane? 

JANE.  (Signalling  PENFIELD  to  remain;  to  GEIST, 
tartly)  Have  I  ever  forbidden  you  to  sit  down ! 

GEIST.  No,  indeed,  Jane.  I  sha'n't  be  here  long. 
I'll  take  this  chair!  Hm!  (GEIST  sits  in  easy  chair 
L.  of  table  c. ;  PENFIELD  comes  down  stage  L.  side  of 
settle  to  fireplace,  where  he  stands,  puzzled;  JANE 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  59 

sits  on  arm  of  settle  facing  GEIST,  her  back  to  PEN- 

FIELD.J 

JANE.  (Impatiently,  mimicking  GEISTJ  Well, 
well.  Hm,  hm !  Hah,  hah !  You've  got  us  by  the 
ears  now — what  is  it  ? 

GEIST.  The  Mayor  has  closed  "Zaporah."  (PEN- 
FIELD  starts  apprehensively.) 

JANE.     Closed  "Zaporah"! 

GEIST.  Precisely.  He  notified  me  to  that  effect 
this  morning.  If  you  want  details — you'll  find  them 
in  the  afternoon  papers ! 

JANE.  (Spluttering  unth  indignation)  It's  an  out- 
rage! 

GEIST.    Hum-hum ! 

JANE.  I  never  heard  of  such  an  idiotic  piece  of 
business — this  Mayor's  a  jackass  ! 

GEIST.    Quite  so! 

JANE.  What  possessed  the  blithering  idiot  to  shut 
down  on  us  like  that  ? 

GEIST.  (With  a  grin)  I  think  it  must  have  been 
— Mr.  Sturgis's  sermon. 

JANE.  (Exasperated,  to  PEN)  You  knew  the 
Mayor's  intention,  Mr.  Sturgis  ? 

PEN  FIELD.    Upon  my  word,  I  did  not ! 

JANE.  Well,  you've  done  it,  with  your  damned 
sermon ! 

GEIST.  Yes,  they've  published  it  word  for  word  in 
the  papers !  They've  got  it  in  pamphlet  form  and 
used  it  as  a  campaign  document  against  us.  A  com- 
mittee visited  the  Mayor  and  stuck  it  under  his  nose. 
Result:  "Zaporah's"  head  comes  off.  Interment  pri- 
vate. No  flowers ! 

JANE.  (Indignantly  to  GEIST,)  You're  not  going 
to  submit  to  this — are  you  ? 

GEIST.    I  must ! 

JANE.    \Vhy  must  you  ? 

GEIST.  Do  you  want  to  be  hauled  to  jail  and  haled 
to  court  ? 


60  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

JANE.    Could  the  Mayor  do  that? 

GEIST.    He  could — and  would ! 

JANE.  (Sinking  down  on  piano  seat)  It's  dis- 
gusting! Why  doesn't  he  censor  the  whole  reper- 
toire ?  Why  doesn't  he  suppress  Die  Walkure  ? 

GEIST.  Mr.  Sturgis  hasn't  called  his  attention  to 
it— yet ! 

PENFIELD.     I  know  nothing  about  Die  Walkure. 

JANE.     And  you  knew  nothing  about  "Zaporah" ! 

GEIST.  But  the  Mayor  acts  on  his  information ! 
Hah! 

PENFIELD.  (Embarrassed)  I'm  very  sorry  to 
have  caused  all  this  trouble,  but 

JANE.  Don't  you  think  it  is  up  to  you  to  set  the 
Mayor  right  ? 

GEIST.  That's  an  idea !  (To  PEN^  A  word  from 
you 

PENFIELD.    What  could  I  say  ? 

JANE.  What  could  you  say?  Why,  the  truth! 
Tell  him  you  hadn't  seen  the  opera  when  you  deliv- 
ered your  sermon — that  now  you  have  seen  it,  and 
find  nothing  objectionable! 

PENFIELD.  But  I  do  find  something  objectionable 
in  it! 

JANE.  (Excited  and  impatient)  For  goodness' 
sake !  I  thought  we  had  settled  that !  Didn't  you  tel! 
me  fifteen  minutes  ago  that  you'd  been  miserably  in 
the  wrong? 

PENFIELD.  Yes,  about  you;  but  not  about  the 
opera ! 

GEIST.  Then  write  and  tell  him  you've  changed 
your  mind  about  her ! 

JANE.  What  good  would  that  do?  The  Mayor 
isn't  suppressing  me! 

GEIST.  Nothing  is  sacred  to  the  clergy!  Well, 
well !  We'll  have  to  change  the  bill,  Jane.  We'll 
make  them  a  concession !  We'll  give  them  some  sim- 


THE   TONGUES    OF    MEN  61 

pie  little  love  story — I  have  it !  We'll  put  on  Tristan 
and  Isolde ! 

JANE.  (Laughing)  Not  in  this  pale  city !  No 
more  passionate  princesses  for  Jane !  They  are  not 
appreciated.  For  the  balance  of  the  engagement  con- 
sider me  a  white  violet!  I'll  "Elizabeth" !  Announce 
"Tannhauser" ! 

GEIST.  (To  PEN)  See  what  you  have  done!  (To 
JANEJ  Rehearsal  tomorrow  at  eleven.  (To  PENJ 
I'll  send  you  a  pair  of  seats;  I'd  like  to  have  your 
opinion  on  a  Wagner  masterpiece!  ( GEIST  exits  L.D. 
PENFIELD  sinks  down  on  the  settle,  his  head  in  his 
hands.  JANE  goes  to  him.) 

JANE.  (Rather  impatiently)  What  is  the  trouble, 
now? 

PENFIELD.  I've  been  thinking  of  what  Mr.  Geist 
said! 

JANE.  Oh,  don't  let  that  bother  you !  I  don't 
mind!  I'm  beginning  to  be  rather  glad  that  I'm  go- 
ing to  sing  "Elizabeth"!  I'll  sing  it  for  you!  In  a 
white  robe  and  golden  hair — you'll  adore  me!  All 
the  church  people  will  adore  me.  I'll  look  as  moral 
as  a  chromo ;  but  I'll  still  be  the  same  Jane  Bartlett ! 

PENFIELD.  I  wouldn't  have  you  otherwise ! 
You're  so  gracious,  so  unselfish,  so  charitable ! 

JANE.  (Impulsively)  You're  a  dear,  foolish,  hon- 
est boy !  I  don't  know  why — but  I  find  it  very  easy 
to  forgive  you !  (Holds  out  hand  to  him.) 

PENFIELD.  (Taking  her  hand  with  a  sudden  feel- 
ing of  happiness)  I'm  grateful  to  you !  (Bell  rings.) 

JANE.  (Going  to  R.D.J  Now  I'm  going  to  dress ; 
I've  got  to  go  out.  If  you  like,  you  may  wait  for  me ! 

PENFIELD.  Oh,  yes !  Let  me  wait  for  you.  (JANE 
exits  R.D.  PENFIELD  watches  JANE  exit;  stands  there 
in  a  brown  study  for  a  moment;  goes  slowly  to  the 
table  c.,  sits — his  head  in  his  hands;  then  selects  a 
sheet  of  note-paper,  picks  up  pen,  leans  back  in  chair 
and  thinks.) 


62  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

(RAPHAEL  enters  L.D.,  showing  in  GEORGINE  DARI- 

GAL.J 

RAPHAEL.  (To  GEORGINEJ  I  will  tell  Madam! 
(Exits  R.D.  PENFIELD  rises;  smiles,  looks  happy.) 

GEORGINE.     (Surprised)     Oh!     Pen! 

PENFIELD.  (Going  to  her  eagerly,  warmly)  My 
dear  girl,  what  has  brought  you  here? 

GEORGINE.  (Taken  back  a  little  by  the  warmth  of 

his  greeting)  Why — Pen — I (Suddenly)  Have 

you  seen  the  afternoon  papers  ? 

PENFIELD.  (With  a  sigh)  No,  but  I  know  what's 
in  them! 

GEORGINE.  Isn't  it  too  bad !  I  hurried  here  to  tell 
Miss  Bartlett  how  sorry  I  am!  You  know  it  was 
your  fault — how  does  she  take  it? 

PENFIELD.  Like  an  angel !  I'm  beginning  to 
think  I've  been  hopelessly  wrong! 

GEORGINE.  (Surprised)  Why — Pen!  (Touch- 
ing his  arm  with  her  hand.)  That's  splendid  of  you 
— to  own  up  you  were  wrong !  I  love  you  for  it ! 

PENFIELD.  (Looking  at  her  steadily,  admiringly 
for  a  moment;  then  with  a  flash  of  passion)  You're 
beautiful  today !  (He  suddenly  takes  her  in  his  arms 
and  kisses  her  passionately.  GEORGINE  struggles, 
frees  herself  from  him,  backs  away  a  little  fright- 
ened, looks  at  him  wonderingly.  PENFIELD,  excited- 
ly, appealingly,  making  a  move  to  follow  her)  Geor- 
gine! 

GEORGINE.  (With  a  gesture  of  fear)  No — no — 
you  make  me  feel  as  though  I'd  been  kissed  by  a 
stranger. 

PENFIELD.  (Laughing  a  little)  You're  a  little 
strange  to  me  yourself.  I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen 
you  before ;  you  look  adorable  as  you  stand  there ! 

GEORGINE.  (Puzzled)  Why  are  you  looking  at 
me  like  that  ? 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  63 

PEN  FIELD.  (Smiling)  Because  you're  so  pretty 
— I  suppose !  (Waits  for  her  to  reply;  she  is  silent.) 
Oh,  well — (With  a  laugh) — I  won't  look  at  you ! 
(He  turns  to  piano,  and  sits  facing  keyboard.) 

GEORGINE.  I  wonder  what  has  come  over  you! 
(She  looks  up  stage  at  the  L.C.D.,  wondering  if  JANE 
could  have  been  influencing  him.  She  decides  that 
JANE  has.) 

PENFIELD.  (Fingering  the  keys,  without  turning) 
Has  something  come  over  me  ? 

GEORGINE.  (With  forced  lightness)  It  doesn't 
matter.  I  guess  I'm  silly.  (After  a  moment's  con- 
sideration, as  she  looks  at  the  back  of  PEN'S  head — 
as  he  is  fingering  the  piano  keys — she  asks)  What — 
made  you  change  your  mind  about — Zaporah? 
(Doorbell  rings.) 

PENFIELD.  I  haven't — but  I  wish  I  could  for  Miss 
Bartlett's  sake — she  has  given  me  an  understanding 
of  her  true  character ! 

GEORGINE.  (Getting  rather  suspicious  and  conse- 
quently jealous)  Oh,  she — she's  been  showing  you 
her  real  self. 

PENFIELD.  Yes!  (Turning  and  rising)  Geor- 
gine,  I've  made  a  terrible  mistake.  I've  got  to  rectify 
it!  (GEORGINE  starts  up  in  alarm.) 

(DR.  FANSHAW  enters  L.D.J 

FANSHAW.  (Coming  down  to  GEORGINEJ  Hello, 
Georgine !  This  young  man  of  yours  has  been  kick- 
ing up  such  a  racket  in  the  newspapers  that  I  thought 
I'd  better  stop  in  and  feel  the  prima  donna's  pulse! 

GEORGINE.  I  think  you'd  better  feel  Pen's!  (Sar- 
castically) He's  had  a  change  of  heart ! 

FANSHAW.    You  mean  a  change  of  mind. 

GEORGINE.    Both! 

PENFIELD.  I'm  convinced  that  I've  been  hideous- 
ly unjust  to  Miss  Bartlett ! 


64  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

FANSHAW.  Very  handsome  of  you,  Pen.  Of 
course  you've  apologized  ? 

PENFIELD.     I  have,  but  I  can't  let  it  go  at  that. 

GEORGINE.    (To  FANSHAWJ    Rubbish ! 

FANSHAW.    My  dear  boy,  what  more  can  you  do? 

PENFIELD.  I  can  write  an  open  letter  to  the  May- 
or! 

GEORGINE.  (Impatiently)  Pen,  that's  absurd ! 
(Appealingly  to  FANSHAWJ  Cousin  Lyn! 

FANSHAW.  (Quieting  her  with  a  gesture.  To 
PENJ  What  will  you  say  to  the  Mayor? 

PENFIELD.  (As  though  he  were  dictating  the  let- 
ter) I  shall  tell  him — that  since  I  have  had  the 
privilege  of  knowing  Miss  Bartlett,  I  realize  that  I 
condemned  her  unjustly;  that  I  have  found  her  to  be 
a  woman  of  high  moral  character ;  that  I  retract  every 
word  I  said  against  her ;  and  that  I  wish  my  letter  to 
be  given  to  the  press. 

GEORGINE.  (Excitedly)  Pen,  that's  wild — it 
would  absolutely  ruin  you ! 

PENFIELD.     It's  the  only  honorable  thing  to  do. 

GEORGINE.    Honorable !    Fiddlesticks ! 

FANSHAW.  (Quieting  her)  Pen,  that  would  be 
a  fine  thing  to  do,  but  an  expensive  one — for  you ; 
and  I  don't  think  Miss  Bartlett  would  let  you  sacri- 
fice yourself  for  her. 

GEORGINE.  Yes !  Why  should  you  sacrifice  your- 
self for  her  ?  It  will  ruin  you ;  you'll  have  to  resign 
from  the  church ! 

PENFIELD.  Upon  my  word,  you  make  me  furious  ! 
Here  you've  been  belaboring  me  for  what  you  call 
my  bigotry — telling  me  that  I'm,  ignorant  in  my  point 
of  view,  cruel  and  unjust  in  my  denunciation  of  Miss 
Bartlett — yet  now,  when  I  discover  for  myself  that 
you  were  right  and  I  was  wrong,  you  won't  hear  of 
my  doing  the  only  decent  thing  I  can  do ! 

GEORGINE.  (Desperately)  There's  no  necessity 
for  it !  She's  big  enough  and  famous  enough  to  take 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  65 

care  of   herself!     You're  just   beginning;  and  you 
seem  to  forget  that  you're  a  clergyman! 

PENFIELD.  (Furiously)  No !  I  remember  that 
I'm  a  clergyman.  And  even  you  can't  make  me  a 
contemptible  hypocrite  to  save  my  own  skin ! 

(Enter  JANE  R.D.,  ravishingly  gowned  for  the  street.) 

JANE.  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Darigal  ?  (To  FAN- 
SHAW j  Twice  in  the  same  day,  Lyn ;  something  ex- 
traordinary ? 

FANSHAW.  It  is  !  I  gather  that  this  boy  has  eaten 
his  sermon !  At  least  the  part  which  referred  to  you 
— now  he  is  determined  to  apologize  to  you  in  an 
open  letter  to  the  Mayor ! 

GEORGINE.  He  wants  to  put  it  in  the  newspa- 
pers! 

FANSHAW.    Jane,  that's  clerical  hari-kari  for  him ! 

JANE.  A  man  doesn't  commit  hari-kari  when  he 
does  the  fair  thing. 

GEORGINE.  (Belligerently)  You  think  it's  fair, 
just  because  it's  in  your  interest ! 

JANE.     Possibly. 

GEORGINE.  (Hotly)  You've  taken  a  mean  ad- 
vantage of  him ! 

PENFIELD.  Look  here,  Georgine,  you  mustn't 
speak  that  way ! 

FANSHAW.  (Restraining  PENFIELD^)  Let  them 
have  it  out ! 

PENFIELD.    But  I  tell  you 

JANE.  (Quieting  him)  P-1-e-a-s-e,  Mr.  Sturgis ! 
(To  GEORGINEJ  Yes,  I've  taken  every  advantage  I 
could  lay  my  hand  to. 

PENFIELD.     (Warmly)    That  isn't  so. 

JANE.     (Amiably)    But  I  have  persuaded  you. 

PENFIELD.  You've  appealed  to  my  intelligence, 
my  sense  of 

GEORGINE.     (Cutting  in)    You  mean  your  senses ! 


66  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

PENFIELD.     (Furiously)     Georgine ! 

FANSHAW.  (To  GEORGINEJ  You're  cutting  it  a 
little  too  thick,  my  dear. 

GEORGINE.    She  doesn't  deny  it ! 

JANE.    Not  at  all ! 

PENFIELD.    (Gasping)    What  ? 

JANE.  I  have  appealed  to  you  in  every  way  that  I 
know. 

GEORGINE.    And  we  all  know  you're  an  expert ! 

JANE.  Yes,  as  you  say,  I'm  an  expert  and  proud 
of  it.  I'm  schooled  as  every  woman  in  this  world 
must  be  who  succeeds  in  what  she  undertakes.  I've 
learned  how  to  please  these  simple  creatures — men, 
learned  how  to  engage  their  friendship,  their  sympa- 
thy, their  confidence;  how  to  appeal  to  their  hearts, 
their  chivalry,  their  intellects.  And  I've  applied  my 
expert  knowledge  to  upset  Mr.  Sturgis's  violent 
prejudices  against  me,  to  convert  an  enemy  into  a 
friend,  an  ally !  Well,  it  seems  that  I  have  been  un- 
righteously successful!  I've  had  my  little  triumph! 
And  like  all  my  triumphs,  it  has  made  me  humble  in 
my  heart!  (Turning  to  PENFIELD.,)  Mr.  Sturgis, 
I  don't  want  you  to  write  that  letter  to  the  Mayor. 

PENFIELD.  (Moved)  I  must  write  it — more  now 
than  ever. 

FANSHAW.  But  Miss  Bartlett  has  asked  you  not 
to. 

PENFIELD.  That's  because  she's  so  splendid — so 
much  bigger  and  so  much  finer  than  the  rest  of  us ! 

FANSHAW.  And  that's  why  she  doesn't  want  you 
to  sacrifice  yourself. 

PENFIELD.  (Angrily)  Yes,  but  you  want  me  to 
sacrifice  her!  I  won't  do  it !  That's  final !  (Goes 
determinedly  to  upper  side  of  table  and  selects  paper 
and  pen  to  zvrite.) 

JANE.  (Confronting  him  R.  side  of  table)  You 
must  not  do  this  for  me! 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  67 

PENFIELD.  (Looking  her  in  the  eyes,  slowly) 
Then  I  shall  do  it  for  myself ! 

GEORGINE.  (Angrily,  coming  to  L.  side  of  table) 
Pen,  if  you  write  that  letter 

FANSHAW.  (Trying  to  restrain  her)  Let  him  do 
what  he  thinks  is  right. 

GEORGINE.  (Rebelliously)  I  won't  have  it! 
(PENFIELD  sits  at  table  and  prepares  to  write.  Omin- 
ously) Pen,  if  you  write  that  letter,  I — I  shall  break 
our  engagement ! 

PENFIELD.  (Starting  up)  I'm  sorry  you  feel  like 
that,  Georgine,  but  this  letter  is  going  to  be  written. 

(GEORGINE  starts  back  from  him,  ripping  off  her  left 
glove.) 

JANE.  You  donkeys !  Oh !  I  never  heard  of  any- 
thing so  ridiculous !  You're  acting  like  children ! 
(To  GEORGINE,)  Break  your  engagement!  Pooh! 
(To  PENFIELD,)  Write  your  letter  ?  Bah !  Both  of 
you  ought  to  be  spanked  and  put  in  your  cradles ! 
Aha-ha-hah !  The  first  thing  you  know,  this  will  be- 
come serious ! 

PENFIELD.  (On  his  feet,  warmly)  It  is  serious ! 
(Angrily)  You've  all  stirred  up  the  depths  of  me, 
and  this — (Striking  the  letter  paper) — this  is  what 
comes  to  the  top.  My  honest  conviction  that  I've 
been  horribly  wrong,  and  that  this  is  the  only  way 
to  square  myself.  The  rest  of  you  can  shilly-shally 
and  coerce  and  threaten — (GEORGINE  tears  ring  from, 
her  left  hand  and  places  it  on  table) — but  you  can't 
move  me !  (He  drops  into  chair,  picks  up  pen, 
straightens  paper,  speaks  quietly)  I'll  be  obliged  to 
all  of  you  if  you  will  clear  out  and  leave  me  alone. 
(He  begins  to  write.  GEORGINE  starts  to  go.) 

JANE.  Don't  throw  away  your  happiness.  Take 
that  ring  with  you. 

GEORGINE.     (In  tearful  anger)     Keep  it  yourself ! 


68  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

JANE.  You  impudent  little  hussy.  You  throw 
away  his  ring  today,  but  tomorrow — hah! — you'll  be 
raising  a  fine  hullabaloo  to  get  it  back  again;  and  I 
hope — so  help  me  God  I  hope — he'll  have  the 
strength  of  mind  to  tell  you  to  go  to  the  devil.  (She 
exits  C.D.) 

CURTAIN  ON  ACT  II 


ACT  III 

SCENE:  JANE  BARTLETT'S  apartments  as  in  Act  II. 
Eleven  o'clock  the  next  •morning.  The  curtains 
are  drawn  across  the  big  window  R.  so  that  the 
stage  is  in  dim  daylight.  As  the  curtain  rises, 
the  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf  strikes  eleven. 

JULIE,  the  maid,  enters  R.D.  and  closes  it  after 
her  with  the  least  noise  possible.  She  tiptoes  to 
the  R.  window  and  draws  the  curtains  open  a  lit- 
tle way  to  admit  a  shaft  of  light,  which  strikes 
the  centre  of  the  partition  up  stage  and  en- 
velopes the  window  in  the  second  floor  of  the 
mezzanine. 

The  doorbell  rings.  JULIE  dashes  in  alarm  to 
the  L.D.  and  exits.  Noise  of  unlocking  door  out- 
side. 

JULIE.  (Without)  Go  away,  I  tell  you.  No! 
No !  No !  Madam  will  not  see  the  reporters. 

SEPULVEDA.  (Without,  excitedly)  Santissima!  I 
am  not  a  reporter ! 

JULIE.  (Without)  But  that  is  one  who  hides  him- 
self behind  your  coat-tail. 

SEPULVEDA.  (Without,  excitedly)  That  is  two ! 
Madre  de  Dios !  You  cannot  ride  in  on  my  back ! 
No — not  at  all.  Queeck,  Julie !  (Noise  of  door  be- 
ing shut  violently  without.  SEPULVEDA,  with  over- 
coat and  hat  on,  enters  L.D.  A  newspaper  sticks  out 
of  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat.  He  is  followed  by 
JULIE,  who  is  greatly  worried.)  .Hah!  They  are  like 
leeches — those  reporters. 

JULIE.    They  have  ring,  ring,  ring — all  the  morn- 
ing.   I  send  them  away  by  the  dozen. 
69 


70  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

SEPULVEDA.  (Excitedly,  raising  his  voice)  I  am 
here  now !  I  will  keep  them  out.  Tell  the  Senorita 
I  am  arrive. 

JULIE.  (Commandingly)  Ssssh!  Madam  is 
asleep. 

SEPULVEDA.  (Excitedly)  She  must  get  up  ali  the 
same. 

JULIE.  If  you  wake  her,  she  will  bite  our  heads 
off. 

SEPULVEDA.  It  will  be  somebody  else  head  she  will 
bite  off  when  she  hear  the  news.  (Peeling  off  his 
overcoat  and  thro^mng  it  on  the  chest  up  stage  L.D. 
with  his  hat.)  Will  you  wake  her  ? 

JULIE.    Non,  non!    I  must  not! 

SEPULVEDA.  So !  Then  permit  me !  (Flings  him- 
self at  the  piano  and  tosses  open  the  case.) 

JULIE.  (In  comic  despair)  Mon  Dieu !  (SE- 
PULVEDA, with  the  loud  pedal  on,  plays  the  "Ride  of 
the  Valkyries."  JULIE  wrings  her  hands  and  starts 
tozvards  R.D.  The  voice  of  JANE  is  heard  from  abo-cc 
off  stage  in  a  tone  of  great  anger,  calling:  "Julie! 
Julie!"  JULIE  hurries  out  R.D.  SEPULVEDA  goes  on 
playing  with  increasing  energy.  In  a  moment  JULIE 
appears  at  the  windoiv  of  the  second  floor  of  the 
apartment.  Calling,  angrily)  Monsieur !  I  f  you  do 
not  cease — go  away — Madam  will  come  down! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Singing  as  he  plays)  I  hope  she 
will — I  hope  she  will ! 

JULIE.  (Withdraiving  her  head  from  window, 
speaking  from  within)  He  will  not  go ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Singing  as  he  plays)  He  will  not 
go — he  will  not  go ! 

JANE.     (Without,  excited,  angry)     Julie !     Julie ! 

JULIE.  (At  window)  Madam  is  coming!  ( JULIE 
disappears  from  the  window.  SEPULVEDA  continues 
to  play.) 

JANE.  (Heard  approaching  R.D.,  without,  angry) 
Julie,  who  is  that  lunatic!  Heavens  above!  (JANE 


THE   TONGUES   OF    MEN  71 

enters  suddenly  R.D.  She  wears  a  "mob"  cap,  set  at 
a  rakish  angle  on  an  untidy  coiffure,  a  gorgeous  East 
Indian  robe  over  a  very  fluffy  night  dress,  a  pair  of 
blue  satin  "mules"  trimmed  with  white  fur.  Furi- 
ously, coming  down  toward  SEPULVEDAJ  Stop  that 
— instantly !  You  don't  know  how  to  play  Wagner — 
it  takes  a  German !  You  disgusting  little  Spaniard, 
how  dare  you  wake  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night  ? 

SEPULVEDA.  (Stops  playing)  Because — it  is  the 
middle  of  the  day. 

JANE.    How  dare  you  wake  me  at  all  ? 

SEPULVEDA.  I  bring  you  the  news — most  impor- 
tant. 

JANE.  (Angrily)  Nothing  is  so  important  as  my 
sleep !  Yet  you  think  no  more  of  waking  me  up  than 
if  I  were  a  housemaid  with  nothing  to  do  but  take  in 
the  milk!  You're  impossible!  If  you  come  here 
again,  I  shall  tell  Raphael  to  turn  you  out !  (With  a 
transition)  What  is  your  news?  What  is  your 
news? 

SEPULVEDA.  You  think  I  will  tell  you  that  news 
after  I  get  such  a  scold? 

JANE.  (Seizing  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shaking 
him)  Indeed,  you  will ! 

SEPULVEDA.  How — can — I — if  you  shake  the 
breath  out  of  me? 

JANE.     (Shaking  him)     Sepulveda,  you  pig! 

SEPULVEDA.  Ah,  that  is  better.  When  I  am  call 
"pig"  I  know  that  you  adore  me. 

JANE.    Tell  me  what  you  came  for,  or  out  you  go ! 

SEPULVEDA.  But  it  is  not  good  that  you  hear.  No ! 
— not  at  all !  You  will  go  crazy ! 

JANE.  I  shall  go  crazy  if  you  don't  tell  me  what 
it  is. 

SEPULVEDA.  I  also  am  crazy  already  as  soon  as  I 
see  it  in  the  newspaper. 

JANE.  Ahhhh  !  It's  in  the  newspapers.  (With  a 
laugh)  Don't  tell  me  they  have  revived  my  three 


72  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

children  at  Buda  Pesth?  Or  this  time — perhaps — 
they've  given  me  two  husbands  in  Petrograd. 

SEPULVEDA.  They  have  revive  the  children — yes! 
But  not  yet  the  husbands.  Also  there  is  more  which 
is  worse. 

JANE.  These  newspapers !  They  are  not  fit  to  be 
read.  Go — get  me  all  of  them ! 

SEPULVEDA.  If  I  go,  the  reporters  will  devour 
me. 

JANE.    Reporters  ? 

SEPULVEDA.    There  is  a  pack  of  them  by  the  door. 

JANE.  (Excitedly)  Good  Lord !  You  get  me  all 
worked  up — and  never  bring  me  a  newspaper ! 

SEPULVEDA.  Ah,  I  do!  (Feels  in  his  pockets.) 
It  was  in  my  pocket !  Ah,  my  overcoat !  (Grabs  up 
his  overcoat  from  the  chest  up  c.  and  takes  news- 
paper from  pocket.) 

JANE.    Give  it  to  me ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Backing  away  from  her)  No,  no ! 
I  think  it  is  not  good  that  you  should  see.  It  will 
make  you  ill ! 

JANE.  (Snatching  paper  from  him)  You  pest! 
(Opening  paper;  looking  at  it  rather  pleased.)  I'm 
all  over  the  front  page !  (Goes  to  piano  and  spreads 
newspaper  on  top  of  it.) 

SEPULVEDA.  (Following  her)  Also  the  little  cler- 
gyman— pigstures  of  you  both.  They  have  given  you 
a  black  eye ! 

JANE.    Beasts !    Is  that  what  you  meant  ? 

SEPULVEDA.    No,  no !    You  read ! 

JANE.  (Reading)  "Clergyman  Apologizes  to 
Prima  Donna.  Penfield  Sturgis  retracts  his  violent 
denouncement  of  Jane  Bartlett  in  open  letter  to  May- 
or. Pays  tribute  to  singer's  high  moral  character." 
(Looking  up.)  What's  the  matter  with  that  ? 

SEPULVEDA.  That  is  just  the  big  words  at  the  top. 
The  bad  is  in  the  little  words  at  the  bottom. 

JANE.     (Looking  at  paper  again,  running  her  fin- 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  73 

ger  down  a  column)  Hum — hum !  Ah,  his  marvel- 
lous letter  to  the  Mayor !  Now  I  have  a  halo ! 
Presently  I  shall  come  to  the  harp !  What  a  precious 
idiot  he  was  to  write  it !  I  should  never  permitted 
him  to  do  it!  Hum,  hum,  hum!  (Exasperated.) 
Where  is  the  rest  of  it  ? 

SEPULVEDA.  (Beside  her,  R.  side,  leaning  over  the 
piano  and  turning  pages)  Over  in  the  back  of  the 
inside.  No,  no.  It  is  beside  the  advertisement  of 
"How  To  Get  Fat." 

JANE.  (Impatiently,  taking  paper  away  from  him) 
For  Heaven's  sake,  give  it  to  me.  Let's  have  some 
light !  (  SEPULVEDA  draws  wide  the  curtains  at  R. 
zvindozv.  Reading)  "Sturgis  has  change  of  heart." 

SEPULVEDA.    That  is  it !    (Returns  to  piano.) 

JANE.  (Reading)  "Since  Mr.  Sturgis  made  his 
scathing  attack  upon  the  personal  character  of  the 
great  soprano,  he  has  been  made  to  see  the  error  of 
his  ways.  His  conversion  was  accomplished  by  the 
singer  herself,  who  believes  in  the  time  honored 
maxim  of  a  kiss  for  a  blow !"  (With  a  little  laugh.) 
Isn't  that  perfectly  killing ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Excitedly)  You  like  that  the  paper 
say  you  kiss  him? 

JANE.  Why  shouldn't  I  kiss  him?  He's  a  nice, 
clean  boy,  isn't  he?  (Looking  at  paper;  then  laugh- 
ing.) Ooooh !  Here  are  the  children ! 

SEPULVEDA.    Go  en  past  the  children ! 

JANE.  (Reading)  "Mr.  Sturgis  has  been  a  daily 
visitor  at  the  singer's  apartments,  and  his  attentions 
to  her  have  been  the  source  of  much  anxiety  to  his 
friends  and  the  members  of  his  congregation."  (She 
bursts  out  laughing.) 

SEPULVEDA.  (Staring  at  her  in  amazement)  You 
—you  laugh?  It  is  an  insult!  His  friends  should 
feel  compHmented  that  you  permit  those  attentions. 
You  are  a  great  artist — he — he  is  a — a  nobody ! 

JANE.     (Seriously)     You  think  it  insults  me!    It 


74  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

doesn't!  I'm  only  sorry  for  little  Sturgis — terribly 
sorry — it's  bound  to  compromise  him. 

SEPULVEDA.  (With  a  jeer)  Compromise  him! 
Hah!  Senorita,  you  will  have  to  marry  him  to  pre- 
serve his  honor !  (Doorbell  rings  off  L.) 

JANE.  (With  a  laugh)  I  would  just  as  soon 
think  of  marrying  you  to  preserve  your  humor !  See 
who  that  is!  (Goes  toward  R.D.,  while  SEPULVEDA 
goes  to  L.Dj 

SEPULVEDA.  (As  he  goes  up  L.J  Are  you  at 
home? 

JANE.  If  it  is  Dr.  Fanshaw,  I  am — at  breakfast. 
Ask  him  to  wait.  To  anyone  else,  I  am  out. 

SEPULVEDA.  But  at  this  hour — no  one  will  believe. 

JANE.  (Retreating  zvithin  R.D.J  Then  invent 
something !  (She  pauses  within  R.D.,  listening.) 

(SEPULVEDA  opens  L.D.  to  the  extent  of  an  inch  or 
two.     RAPHAEL'S  face  appears  at  tlic  crack.) 

SEPULVEDA.    Raphael,  say  that  the  Senorita  is  out ! 

GEIST.  (Without)  Hah!  Out?  Nonsense!  (The 
face  of  GEIST  replaces  RAPHAEL'S  at  the  L.D.J 

SEPULVEDA.  (Keeping  GEIST  out)  It  is  so — she 
— she  has  gone  to  Buda  Pesth  to  visit  her  three  little 
children !  (JANE  laughs.) 

GEIST.  Then  permit  me  to  see  the  lady  who  laughs 
high  C. 

SEPULVEDA.    Senor,  I  must  object ! 

JANE.  (Coming  from  R.D.,  shouting)  What  do 
you  mean  by  keeping  him  out  ?  Come  in,  Herman ! 
(Hand  to  her  throat.)  Oh,  my  voice!  I  sha'n't  be 
able  to  sing  tonight ! 

GEIST.  (Entering)  How  are  the  little  children  at 
Buda  Pesth,  Jane? 

JANE.  (Laughing)  They  were  resurrected  this 
morning.  Have  you  seen  the  papers  ? 

GEIST.  Twenty  columns,  if  a  line!  It  is  magnifi- 
cent! (Rubbing  his  hands.)  And  there  is  more  to 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  75 

come.  I  have  just  seen  the  Mayor.  He  may  permit 
us  to  repeat  "Zaporah." 

JANE.  You  must  send  him  a  box.  (Comes  down 
R.C.  and  sits  on  piano  bench.) 

GEIST.  Impossible !  We  will  be  sold  out !  Jane, 
you  are  not  only  a  great  artist,  but  you  are  also  a 
great  press  agent !  What  a  story !  That  clergyman 
was  a  stroke  of  genius !  They  will  keep  it  up  for 
weeks  if  you  remain  silent.  (Comes  down  L.  and  sits 
on  arm  of  settle  by  fireplace.  SEPULVEDA  sits  in 
chair  back  of  table  up  c.) 

JANE.    Silent  ? 

GEIST.  You  must  not  see  the  newspaper  men. 
Leave  them  to  me ! 

SEPULVEDA.  They  have  try  to  get  in  by  my  coat- 
tail. 

GEIST.    You've  not  seen  them,  Jane  ? 

JANE.    No,  but  why  shouldn't  I  ? 

GEIST.  Because  if  you  speak,  they  will  have  a 
fact ;  and  nothing  kills  a  story  so  surely  as  a  fact.  If 
they  do  not  have  a  fact,  they  will  speculate;  and  the 
story  will  grow  prodigiously. 

SEPULVEDA.    They  water  it  with  their  imagination. 

JANE.    But  the  facts  in  this  case  are  plain  enough. 

GEIST.  Plain?  For  example,  what  do  they  know 
of  your  true  relations  with  your  young  clergyman? 

JANE.  My  relations?  (Getting  angry)  Ahhh! 
Do  I  need  a  scandal  like  that  to  fill  your  rat-hole  of 
an  opera  house?  With  its  filthy  stage — I — I  ruin 
my  Brunhilda  dress — because  you  are  too  mean  to 
have  the  floor  scrubbed  !  Ahhhhh ! 

GEIST.  The  News  says  you  have  compromised 
Sturgis ;  but  that  is  not  a  patch  on  some  of  the  other 
— the  yellow  ones ! 

JANE.  (Screeching)  I  won't  hear  another  word — 
Ohhhh !  (Takes  the  stage.) 

GEIST.  (Rising,  alarmed)  Don't  screech,  Jane. 
You'll  hurt  your  voice. 


76  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

JANE.  (Stroking  her  throat,  sotto  voice)  What 
do  they  say?  (Making  a  face.)  Something  nasty? 

GEIST.  (Hastily)  Oh,  no — oh,  no!  Rather  a — a 
romance  as  it  were — the  little  minister  denouncing 
the  siren  one  day  and  falling  a  victim  to  her  charms 
the  next.  They  say  he  will  be  pitched  out  of  his  pul- 
pit. 

JANE.  (Saying,  her  voice  worried)  Oh,  I  hope 
not! 

SEPULVEDA.    It  is  not  so  funny  any  more. 

JANE.    Oh,  shut  up !    Run  away ! 

SEPULVEDA.  (Rising)  But  I  came  to  have  break- 
fast with  you. 

JANE.  (Going  up  stage  toward  R.D.J  Take  break- 
fast with  him !  (Indicating  GEIST.,) 

GEIST.    I've  had  my  breakfast. 

SEPULVEDA.  Then  let  us  have  dejeuner  together. 
It  is  all  the  same  to  me. 

JANE.  Yes !  Take  him  away  with  you,  Herman  ! 
Stuff  him — it's  the  only  meal  he'll  get  for  a  week; 
but  don't  give  him  buckwheat  cakes  and  sausage — • 
they  always  make  him  sick. 

GEIST.  I'll  feed  the  little  brute!  (Going  toward 
L.D.J  Now  you'll  do  nothing,  Jane,  to  spoil  the 
story?  (SEPULVEDA  picks  up  his  hat  and  coat  from 
the  chest  up  c.) 

JANE.    I'll  do  what  I  please ! 

GEIST.    My  dear  Jane,  it  can't  hurt  you. 

JANE.  But  it  can  hurt  him.  I  won't  have  it !  I 
won't  have  it ! 

GEIST.    Hah!    You  are  in  love  with  him! 

JANE.  (Stroking  her  throat)  I  won't  sing  to- 
night. You  can  put  that  skinny  Podesta  into  the  part 
— she  never  hit  a  true  high  note  in  her  life. 

GEIST.  (Hastily)  I  was  mistaken.  You're  not 
in  love  with  him.  You'll  sing  tonight,  Jane — that's  a 
good  giri !  Come  along,  Seppy,  I'll  stand  for  the 
luncheon. 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  77 

SEPULVEDA.  If  you  will  give  me  a  small  advance 
on  my  opera,  I  will  pay  for  both  of  us.  (Links  his 
arm  in  GEIST'  s  and  they  start  toward  L.D.,) 

GEIST.    I  prefer  to  pay  for  the  luncheon  ! 


RAPHAEL.    Madam,  your  sister  ! 

(MRS.  KEARSLEY  enters  L.D.  briskly  with  a  bow  to 
GEIST  and  SEPULVEDA,  and  goes  directly  to 
JANE,  who  stares  at  her  in  amazement.  GEIST 
and  SEPULVEDA  look  at  MRS.  KEARSLEY  in  com- 
ic surprise  and  exit  L.D.,  -followed  by  RAPHAEL,  j 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Your  man  wasn't  going  to  let 
me  in  —  so  I  told  him  I  was  your  sister  !  Open  se- 
same !  You'll  pardon  the  liberty,  won't  you,  but  I 
felt  it  my  duty  to  come  and  get  the  truth  from  your 
own  lips. 

JANE.     (Coldly)     The  truth  about  what? 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Oh,  you  must  know!  The  pa- 
pers are  full  of  it  —  your  four  children  at  Buda 
Pesth  —  the  —  eh  —  attentions  of  Mr.  Sturgis  !  I've 
just  come  from  a  meeting  of  the  Dorcas  Society. 
Everybody  thinks  the  Vestry  ought  to  ask  Mr.  Stur- 
gis to  resign,  but  —  I  - 

JANE.  (Irritated)  Why  should  the  Vestry  ask 
Mr.  Sturgis  to  resign  ? 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  That's  just  it!  Why?  (Flops 
herself  down  on  the  piano  seat.)  That's  why  I'm 
here,  as  a  friend  of  yours  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Stur- 
gis. (JANE  takes  a  turn  down  stage  LV  faces  about 
and  looks  at  MRS.  KEARSLEY  ominously.)  I'm  sure 
it  can  all  be  explained,  but  you  know  the  newspapers  ! 
They've  thrown  out  hints,  and  people  will  talk,  and 
of  course  the  Vestry  can't  ignore  - 

JANE.     (Breaking  out  warmly)     I  don't  care  one 


78  THE   TONGUES   OF    MEN 

iota  what  the  newspapers  say,  what  a  pack  of  gossipy 
hags  hash  over,  or  what  your  drivelling  old  vestry- 
men can't  ignore! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  That's  because  you  are  innocent. 
(JANE  stares  at  her  in  blank  amazement.)  I  know 
that  you  and  Mr.  Sturgis  are  incapable  of  doing  any- 
thing— eh — out  of  the  way,  but — 

JANE.  (Angrily)  Out  of  the  way?  Good  Lord! 
(Then  with  a  transition  to  genuine  amusement, 
laughs.)  Oh,  you  religious  people — what  jolly  imag- 
inations you  have !  (Subsiding,  with  a  smile)  What 
do  you  all  suppose  I've  been  doing  with  your  precious 
little  rector? 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  It's  not  that  /  suppose  anything, 
but  they  do — the  women  of  the  society — they  all  say 
— a  man  doesn't  call  every  day  on  a  prima  donna — 
for  nothing! 

JANE.  God !  I  can  see  your  nasty,  evil-minded 
friends  as  they  said  it!  I  know  them  and  all  their 
kind.  You're  a  beastly,  contemptible,  vicious  tribe 
of  social  Apaches.  You  haven't  the  courage  to  com- 
mit any  natural  sin  yourselves,  but  you're  forever 
hoping  to  catch  somebody  else  at  it ;  and  heaven  help 
the  man,  woman  or  child  who  gives  you  an  excuse  to 
bear  false  witness  against  them.  That's  what  your 
herd  of  female  swine  are  doing — bearing  false  wit- 
ness against  Mr.  Sturgis  and  me.  That  doesn't  hurt 
me  in  the  least ;  but  it  damns  him !  Damns  him — his 
character — his  career !  I  tell  you,  I  won't  stand  for 
it — not  if  I  have  to  go  to  the  Bishop  myself.  (Hand 
to  her  throat.)  Aaaaah ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  Oh,  you're  going  to  the  Bishop  ? 
(Rues.) 

JANE.  (In  a  husky  whisper,  with  hand  to  her 
throat)  Yes !  Yes !  Yes !  Go,  spread  the  news 
while  it's  hot!  (Urges  her  to  L.D.) 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Going  up  L.J  Oh,  I'm  not  such 
a  chatter-box  as  that !  By  the  way,  I've  been  admir- 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  79 

ing  your  wrapper.  It's  heavenly,  my  dear.  Where 
did  you  get  it  ? 

JANE.  It  was  a  present  from  one  of  the  Princes 
of  India.  Of  course  you  know  the  Princes  of  India 
— charming  people — perfectly  good  family — live  in 
red  and  blue  palaces  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges — 
drive  around  in  little  gold  hansoms  with  six  highly 
upholstered  camels. 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Near  L.D.J  How  fearfully  in- 
teresting. You  must  have  had  quite  an  affair  with 
the  Prince. 

JANE.     (Wearily)    Oh,  passionate ! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  I'll  come  around  some  day  soon 
and  get  you  to  tell  me  all  the  exciting  details ;  for  you 
know,  my  dear  Miss  Bartlett,  all  this  scandal  about 
you  and  poor  Mr.  Sturgis  makes  not  the  slightest 
difference  in  my  regard  for  you. 

JANE.  (Tartly)  I  hoped  it  would !  (Trying  her 
voice)  La,  la,  la,  la!  (Hand  to  her  throat.)  Oh,  I 
won't  be  able  to  sing  tonight!  Good-bye!  Good- 
bye! 

MRS.  KEARSLEY.  (Hand  on  the  door-knob)  Don't 
forget — it  makes  no  difference  to  me  what 

JANE.  (Furiously,  but  saving  her  voice,  in  a  fierce 
whisper)  Go — get  out,  or  I'll  throw  the  piano  at 
you!  (MRS.  KEARSLEY  exits  quickly  L.D.  JANE  to 
the  L.D.,  imitating  a  cat)  Haaaaaah !  (Shuts  the 
door  violently,  goes  up  stage,  pushes  button;  bell 
rings  loudly  off  stage.  JANE  turns  to  table  c.,  stands 
there  in  thought  a  moment,  looks  at  clock,  goes  up 
L.,  picks  up  telephone.  Enter  RAPHAEL  L.D.  Shak- 
ing her  fist  at  him.)  If  you  ever  let  that  woman  in 
here  again,  I'll — I'll — have  you  shot  at  dawn! 

RAPHAEL.  Very  good,  Madam!  (RAPHAEL  ex- 
its L.D.J 

JANE.  (To  the  telephone)  Give  me  the  Episco- 
pal Hospital,  please — I  forget  the  number !  (Furi- 
ously) What?  Hello!  Hello!  Hello!  Give  me 


8o  THE   TONGUES   OF    MEN 

information — the  manager God,  what  service! 

Ah,  3904  Broad  .  .  .  The  Episcopal  Hospital  ? . . . 
Is  Dr.  Fanshaw  there?  (Impatiently)  Well,  get 
him — get  him  .  .  .  Oh,  my  voice ! !  Sturani  must 
keep  down  the  brasses  tonight !  .  .  .  Miss  Bartlett 

.  .  .     Bartlett (Resigns  herself  to  waiting.)     I 

must  remember  to  tell  Herman  to  bring  that  fool  to 

my  dressing  room (Starting — to  the  telephone) 

Hello,  I  want  to  speak  to  Doctor  .  .  .  Damn  this 
wire!  (Sweetly)  Oh,  is  that  you,  Lyn?  I've  had 
a  terrific  time  getting  you!  .  .  .  Well,  Jane  wants 
you  to  come  to  her  right  away  .  .  .  (Sharply) 
Why  not!  (Anxiously)  Operation (Sympa- 
thetically) Oh,  isn't  that  dreadful!  .  .  .  (Insist- 
ently) When  can  you  come?  .  .  .  Just  as  soon  as 
you  can,  please!  (Smiling,  sweetly)  That's  charm- 
ing of  you,  but  really  I  don't  care  a  rap  for  my  own 

sake (Emphatically)     Those  two  young  idiots 

have  got  to  make  it  up?  ...  (Louder)  Make  it 
up!  ...  Miss  Darigal  and  Sturgis — their  engage- 
ment! .  .  .  Decidedly!  (Smiling.)  Good-bye! 
(She  hangs  up  telephone  and  opens  telephone  direc- 
tory.) Main  203 !  (Picks  up  telephone.)  Main 
203  !  No — no — 2-0-3  '  (Furiously,  to  herself)  I'm 
going  out  of  my  mind.  I'm  losing  my  voice!  .  .  . 
(Starting,  to  phone)  Hello !  Is  Mr.  Sturgis  in  ? 
(Pleasantly)  Oh,  good  morning,  Mr.  Sturgis!  .  .  . 
Very  well,  thank  you  .  .  .  Can  you  come  down 
here  immediately  .  .  .  Oh,  you  were  coming?  .  .  . 
Upset?  Not  in  the  least  .  .  .  Good-bye!  (Hangs 
up  receiver.  Picks  up  telephone  wearily.)  D-Dar — 
I  must  tell  Orsino  not  to  eat  garlic !  .  .  .  Darigal ! 
South  n/i-A.  (Takes  up  telephone.)  South  1171- 
A !  (Shouting)  A — A — A !  You  need  an  ear  trum- 
pet! (Waits.)  Is  that  Miss  Darigal?  (With  the 
air  of  a  grande  dame)  This  is  Miss  Bartlett!  I'd 
like  very  much  to  see  you,  Miss  Darigal  .  .  . 
That's  very  kind,  but  I  sing  tonight.  I  must  rest — 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  81 

take  care  of  my  voice  .  .  .  Can't  you  run  down  to 
see  me  for  a  few  minutes  ?  .  .  .  No,  it  isn't  that ! 
I'm  in  trouble — great  trouble.  You're  the  only  one 
I  know  who  can  help  me  .  .  .  Yes,  you  can;  yes, 
you  can.  (Doorbell  rings  off  L.)  There's  no  reason 
why  you  should.  I  haven't  the  slightest  claim  upon 
you  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do  need  you !  ( JULIE  enters  L.D. 
JANE  signals  her  to  wait.  To  the  telephone)  You 
will  come  ?  .  .  .  Thank  you.  Within  the  next  half 
hour.  Yes !  Good-bye !  (With  an  exhausted  sigh 
of  relief  hangs  up  receiver.)  Ahhhh ! 

JULIE.     Madam  is  at  home? 

JANE.    Say  you'll  see. 

(JANE  retreats  to  R.D.,  opens  it  and  stands  within  the 
doorway,  where  she  may  hear  without  being 
seen.  JULIE  takes  a  salver  from  table,  opens 
L.D.,  discovering  LOUGHRAN  and  GOADBY.) 

LOUGHRAN.    Well,  is  Miss  Bartlett  in? 

GOADBY.  (As  though  in  the  more  correct  man- 
ner) Is  she  at  home? 

JULIE.     I'll  see!     Who  shall  I  say? 

GOADBY.  (Producing  a  card  and  placing  it  on 
salver)  My  card!  (LOUGHRAN  fumbles  in  a  large 
wallet  and  produces  a  card.) 

GOADBY.  (Protesting)  Not  your  business  card — 
she'll  think  you've  come  to  sell  her  a  furnace. 

LOUGHRAN.  It's  all  I've  got  with  me.  It's  good 
enough  for  her!  (Drops  card  on  salver.) 

(JuLiE  ushers  them  in.  GOADBY  glances  about  the 
room  appraisingly  and  sits  in  comfortable  chair 
L.  of  c.  table.  LOUGHRAN  sits  stiffly  on  settle  L. 
JULIE  goes  to  R.D.,  which  JANE  has  half  closed, 
passes  within  doorway  and  presents  cards  to 
JANE,  who  looks  at  them  with  a  puzzled  smile.) 


82  THE   TONGUES    OF    MEN 

GOADBY.  (To  LOUGHRAN)  These  actresses  treat 
themselves  pretty  well,  don't  they?  (Referring  to 
the  room.) 

LOUGHRAN.  Somebody  else  usually  does  the  treat- 
ing. 

GOADBY.  I  guess  that's  so;  and  they're  expensive 
luxuries — very  expensive  from  what  I  hear. 

LOUGHRAN.  A  man  in  your  position  has  no  right 
to  let  his  mind  dwell  on  such  subjects. 

(JANE  gives  a  push  with  her  fingers  at  her  "mob" 
cap,  and  with  the  cards  in  her  hand,  comes  down 
R.  of  table.) 

JANE.  (With  suppressed  anger)  Mr.  Goadby! 
(  GOADBY  bounces  out  of  his  chair.  LOUGHRAN  rises 
stiffly,  staring  at  JANE  disapprovingly.) 

JANE.  (To  GOADBY)  I  can  only  give  you  five 
minutes.  I  have  to  have  my  massage — my  manicure ; 
I  must  go  over  my  part — be  soothed 

GOADBY.  (Pantingly)  Oh,  Miss  Bartlett — you 
remember  me? 

JANE.  But  this  other  gentleman — (Looking  at 
card)  "Mr.  Godfrey  Loughran,  Loughran  &  Peters, 
Hot  Water  and  Steam  Heating  Plants,  Furnaces, 
Stoves,  Pipes,  and  Fittings,  Etc."  I  didn't  send  for 
a  plumber! 

LOUGHRAN.  (Nettled)  I'm  a  vestryman  of  St. 
Martin's-in-the-Lane. 

GOADBY.    Yes,  he's  a  vestryman  of  St.  Martin's. 

JANE.  That  must  be  a  great  help  to  him  in  his 
business.  (To  LOUGHRAN)  I  suppose  you  get  all 
the  fashionable  plumbing  in  the  parish. 

LOUGHRAN.  I  haven't  come  here  to  discuss  my 
business. 

JANE.     What  have  you  come  here  to  discuss  ? 

GOADBY.     The — fact  is — eh — Miss  Bartlett 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  83 

LOUGHRAN.  (Sharply  to  GOADBY)  Am  I  spokes- 
man, or  you? 

GOADBY.    Oh,  you — you,  of  course! 

JANE.  (With  a  grand  manner)  You  have  my 
permission  to  sit  down.  (JANE  sits  on  piano  bench 
facing  L.,  GOADBY  in  the  chair  L.  of  table,  LOUGH- 
RAN  on  settle  ~L.) 

LOUGHRAN.  (Addressing  himself  to  JANE)  We 
have  come  to  you  as  representatives  of  the  vestry  of 
St.  Martin's-in-the-Lane.  You  must  be  fully  aware 
of  this  whirlpool  of  notoriety 

GOADBY.     "Whirlpool"  is  very  good,  Loughran — 

LOUGHRAN.  This  whirlpool  of  notoriety  into 
which  our  rector,  Mr.  Penfield  Sturgis,  has  been 
drawn.  The  newspapers  have  informed  the  com- 
munity of  the  extraordinary — not  to  say  mon- 
strous  

GOADBY.     "Extraordinary"  is  the  safer  word! 

LOUGHRAN.  (Ignoring  GOADBY)  — the  mon- 
strous influence  which  you  have  exerted  over  Mr. 
Sturgis,  and  the  scandal 

JANE.  (Tapping  her  foot  impatiently)  Yes,  I 
know  all  about  that.  (Looking  at  clock)  You've 
got  three  minutes  left ! 

LOUGHRAN.  If  I  had  my  way,  we  would  ignore 
you  entirely  in  this  matter,  and  dismiss  Mr.  Sturgis 
at  once 

JANE.  (Impatiently)  Well,  well — what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  Pay  him  his  salary  for  the  season — his 
fare  home — and  an  inside  cabin? 

GOADBY.  Not  at  all !  Not  at  all !  The  vestry  has 
split  on  the  question  of  dismissal.  We  are  at  a  dead- 
lock— until  the  Bishop — (  GOADBY  catches  a  freezing 
look  from  LOUGHRAN  and  his  speech  dries  up) — eh 
—eh 

LOUGHRAN.  (To  GOADBY,  severely)  The  Bishop's 
name  should  not  be  dragged  into  this  conversation. 

GOADBY.    That's  because  he  overruled  you! 


84  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

JANE.  (Impatiently)  You've  got  the  Bishop  in 
now — let  him  stay.  I've  a  feeling  that  he's  a  man  of 
common  sense. 

GOADBY.  The  Bishop  is  what  you  might  call  a 
"man  of  the  world." 

LOUGHRAN.  I  object  to  your  calling  the  Bishop  a 
"man  of  the  world."  It  implies  a  looseness  of  mor- 
als which  no  churchman,  however  politic 

GOADBY.  Perhaps  you're  right.  I  didn't  mean 
anything. 

LOUGHRAN.  (To  GOADBY,  severely)  Must  I  re- 
mind you  again,  that  before  we  came  here  it  was 
definitely  settled  that  I  was  to  do  the  talking  ? 

GOADBY.  Quite  so — quite  so;  but  I  think  you 
might  let  me  put  in  a  word  now  and  then. 

LOUGHRAN.     Don't  interrupt ! 

GOADBY.    I  was  only 

JANE.  (Impatiently)  It's  decided  that  the  Bishop 
is  not  a  "man  of  the  world."  Go  on,  Mr.  Loughran. 
You've  only  got  two  minutes  now ! 

LOUGHRAN.  Even  though  I  do  not  agree  with  the 
Bishop  in  this  instance,  I  have  great  respect  for  his 
opinion.  He  deplores  the  notoriety  which  has  at- 
tended the  publication  of  Mr.  Sturgis's  letter  to  the 
Mayor 

GOADBY.  All  the  same  he  says  that  Sturgis  was 
right  to  acknowledge  himself  wrong  as  to  the  charac- 
ter of  Miss  Bartlett,  and  I  stand  by  the  Bishop. 

LOUGHRAN.     You  shifted.    He  couldn't  move  me. 

GOADBY.  (To  JANE)  It's  the  Bishop's  notion — 
(He  stops  abruptly,  meeting  LOUGH RAN'S  freezing 
glance.  Uncertainly)  I  guess  you'd  better 

LOUGHRAN.  The  point  the  Bishop  makes  is  this : 
It  is  better  for  the  sake  of  the  church  to  ignore  this 
episode  entirely  and  retain  the  services  of  Mr.  Stur- 
gis, provided  he  discontinues  his  attentions  to  you, 
and  announces  his  engagement  to  Miss  Darigal. 

JANE.     (Nettled)     Why  serve  me  with  the  Bish- 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  85 

op's  ultimatum?  You  should  communicate  with 
Mr.  Sturgis. 

GOADBY.    We  have  seen  Mr.  Sturgis. 

LOUGHRAN.  And  he  actually  refuses  to  comply 
with  the  Bishop's  demands. 

GOADBY.  What's  a  sight  worse,  Sturgis  loses  his 
temper  and  hands  the  vestry  his  resignation. 

JANE.     Oh! 

LOUGHRAN.  If  I  had  my  way,  we'd  accept  his 
resignation. 

GOADBY.  But  the  Bishop  won't  hear  of  it.  We 
got  him  on  the  'phone.  He  insists  that  we  patch  the 
matter  up  somehow. 

JANE.  I'm  afraid  you  don't  know  how  to  handle 
Mr.  Sturgis. 

GOADBY.     That's  the  point — we  don't. 

LOUGHRAN.  Since  reason  failed  to  move  him,  we 
decided — after  consultation — to  come  to  you  for  the 
purpose  of  enlisting  your  influence. 

JANE.    With  Mr.  Sturgis? 

LOUGHRAN.  Yes !  We  want  you  to  influence  him 
to  withdraw  his  resignation  and  comply  with  the 
Bishop's  demands. 

JANE.  What  an  enormous  compliment  you  pay 
me! 

LOUGHRAN.  You  are  at  liberty  to  take  it  that  way 
if  you  like ;  but  we  feel,  since  the  responsibility  is 
really  yours 

JANE.     (Starting)     The  responsibility  mine? 

LOUGHRAN.  Certainly !  You  must  understand 
that  you  are  fundamentally  to  blame. 

JANE.  (Beginning  to  get  angry)  I  understand 
nothing  of  the  kind ! 

GOADBY.  What  Mr.  Loughran  means  is  that  you 
started  the  trouble. 

JANE.  (Controlling  herself  -with  difficulty)  Oh! 
7  started  it! 


86  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

LOUGHRAN.  You  made  the  first  overtures  to  Mr. 
Sturgis  at  his  church. 

JANE.  (With  suppressed  anger)  I  called  upon 
him  to  protest  against  the  way  he  slandered  me  in 
his  pulpit. 

LOUGHRAN.  We'll  not  discuss  that  point ;  but  you 
can't  deny  that  you  induced  him  to  visit  you  here. 

GOADBY.     No,  you  can't  deny  that! 

JANE.  (Angrily)  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  should 
I  deny  it  ?  Yes — I  invited  him  here — to  drum  a  little 
sense  into  his  head ! 

LOUGHRAN.  I'm  not  going  to  question  your  mo- 
tives, but  judging  from  results — you  drummed  what 
little  sense  he  had  out  oi  his  head ! 

GOADBY.  I'd  say  that  Sturgis  just  up  and  lost  his 
head! 

LOUGHRAN.  (Insinuatingly)  And  no  man  loses 
his  head  for  nothing ! 

GOADBY.  That's  rather  rough,  Loughran.  Miss 
Bartlett  is  a  charming  woman.  Sturgis  is  a  young 
man,  and — well — charms  are  charms  !  (To  JANE) 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so? 

JANE.     (Ominously)    Oh,  no — oh,  no !    Go  on ! 

LOUGHRAN.  I  don't  pretend  to  know  as  much  as 
Mr.  Goadby  does  about  your  sex,  but  it's  plain  to 
me  that  a  woman  with  your  experience — you  have 
four  or  five  children,  I  believe,  at  Buda  Pesth 

JANE.  (Ominously)  And  three  husbands  in  Pet- 
rograd ! 

LOUGHRAN.  I  know  nothing  of  your  various  hus- 
bands, but  I  do  know  that  a  woman  of  your  type 
finds  no  difficulty  in  making  a  young  man  like  Stur- 
gis take  orders  from  you — and  in  view  of  the  way 
you've  led  him  from  the  path  of  rectitude,  the  least 
you  can  do  now  is  to  use  your  influence  to  restore 
him  to  his  church  ! 

JANE.  (Rising  and  confronting  LOUGHRAN,  her 
anger  making  her  almost  inarticulate)  You — you — 


THE   TONGUES   OF    MEN  87 

LOUGHRAN.      (Rising,  astonished)     Eh? 

JANE.  You — contemptible — cad!  (GOADBY  stag- 
gers to  his  feet,  gaping.) 

LOUGHRAN.  (Backing  away  from  JANE'S  vehe- 
mence) Hey?  Why — what?  ( GOADBY  backs  up 
L.) 

JANE.  (Breaking  out)  You  contemptible  cad! 
You  nasty,  filthy  ape!  You — you  have  the  imperti- 
nence to  ask  me  a  tremendous  favor,  and  you  have 
not  the  decency  to  put  your  request  in  terms  of 
ordinary  politeness — every  word  you  have  uttered 
has  been  an  insult — you  ascribe  to  me  all  the  intrigu- 
ing powers  of  a  common  hussy,  and  then  demand 
that  I  use  those  same  powers  for  the  good  of  your 
confounded  church!  Go  back  to  your  vestry  and 
tell  them,  with  my  unholy  compliments — that  they 
can  all — go  to  the  devil !  (JANE  turns  her  back  on 
them,  calling)  Julie !  Raphael !  Where  is  my 
breakfast? 

LOUGHRAN.     (Backing  away  ~L.)    Needless  to  say, 

GOADBY.  You've  said  enough,  Loughran.  You 
put  your  foot  in  it.  You  should  have  left  it  to  me. 

JANE.  (Turning  around  on  GOADBY)  Yes,  to 
your  soft-pawed  hypocrisy — you  grotesque  little 
mongrel !  To  think  that  I  should  have  had  to  en- 
dure your  odious  jibberings  ! — and  before  breakfast ! 

GOADBY.  (Near  the  L.D.,  turning  on  JANE  nastily) 
If  I'm  a  mongrel,  you're  a  cat — a  great  big,  vicious 
striped  cat  that  ought  to  be  kept  in  a  zoo.  Oh,  you 
don't  fool  me  with  your  high  and  mightiness. 
You're  after  young  Sturgis — that's  what  you  are. 
(LOUGHRAN  opens  the  L.oJ  But  I'll  see  that  you 
don't  get  him !  Three  husbands  in  St.  Petersburg ! 
I'll  put  detectives  on  you!  I'll  dig  up  your  whole 
rotten  past !  That's  what  I'll  do — dig  up  your  whole 
rotten  past ! 


88  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

(PENFIELD  STURGIS  appears  at  the  L.D.) 

LOUGHRAN.  (Startled)  Mr.  Sturgis!  (GOADBY 
turns,  taken  aback  at  the  sight  of  PENFIELD.) 

PENFIELD.  (Entering,  puzzled,  angry)  What 
are  you  two  doing  here? 

LOUGHRAN.     We'll  put  that  question  to  you. 

PENFIELD.  If  you're  so  anxious  to  know,  I'll  tell 
you — I  am  here  to  ask  Miss  Bartlett  to  marry  me ! 
(General  astonishment.) 

GOADBY.  (Spluttering  with  astonishment  and 
rage)  You're  a  fool — a  fool ! 

LOUGHRAN.  (Horror-stricken)  Marry  that  wo- 
man? 

GOADBY.     That  woman! 

JANE.  (Furiously)  Yes !  Yes !  Yes !  He  has 
asked  "that  woman"  to  marry  him!  Marry  him! 
Go  look  it  up  in  the  dictionary — it  means  to  wed,  to 
espouse,  to  join  in  matrimony!  That's  what  he's 
proposed,  and  I — I  have  accepted  him !  "That  wo- 
man" is  engaged,  plighted,  affianced,  betrothed  to 
him.  Go — publish  the  banns,  tell  everybody  that 
Jane  Bartlett  is  going  to  marry  the  Rev.  Penfield 
Sturgis!  Do  you  hear?  Have  you  got  that  stu- 
pendous idea  through  your  paralytic  brains?  Don't 
dare  to  answer  me — don't  speak  to  me !  Get  out  of 
my  sight — you  cads,  you  fawning,  double-faced  pair 
of  paranoiacs,  or  1^11  throw  you  both  out  of  the  win- 
dow! (  GOADBY  throws  up  his  hands  in  horror  and 
exits  promptly  with  LOUGHRAN  L.D.  PENFIELD  closes 
door.  JANE  leans  against  table  c.,  her  back  to  audi- 
eiice,  in  a  state  of  physical  and  mental  exhaustion.) 

PENFIELD.  (Approaching  her)  I'm  so  sorry — 
that  blundering  pair  has  been  annoying  you. 

JANE.  They've  harassed — insulted — brow-beaten 
me — until  every  nerve  in  my  body  is  standing  on  end ! 
(Hand  to  throat — whispering)  And — I've  got  no 
voice  left! 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  89 

PENFIELD.  It's  all  my  fault.  I've  brought  you 
nothing  but  unhappiness.  You  poor  thing ! 

JANE.  (Vehemently)  For  God's  sake  don't  say 
anything  kind  to  me !  Don't !  Don't ! 

PENFIELD.     Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you? 

JANE.  No — no !  When  I  get  like  this,  I  want  to 
be  let  alone. 

PENFIELD.  (Throwing  his  hands  up  in  the  air) 
Perhaps  I  had  better  go. 

JANE.  I  don't  care  what  you  do;  but,  for  Heav- 
en's sake,  put  your  hands  in  your  pockets. 

PENFIELD.  (Rather  crossly,  putting  his  hands  in 
his  pockets)  All  right !  All  right ! 

JANE.  (Wearily,  ex-asperated)  Don't  take  that 
tone !  Do  have  some  sense — consider  me !  I've  got 
to  sing  tonight!  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  be 
peevish ! 

PENFIELD.  I've  been  a  bit  stirred  up  myself  this 
morning ! 

JANE.    But  you've  had  your  breakfast ! 

PENFIELD.     (With  concern)     Haven't  you? 

JANE.  Not  a  mouthful !  It's  just  been  one  damn 

thing  after  another,  until  I (Hand  to  throat.) 

Ah,  my  voice !  No  breakfast — no  bath — no  mas- 
sage !  (To  PENFIELD)  Look  at  me !  No,  don't !  I 
must  look  as  if  the  dog  had  played  with  me.  (Starts 
up  to  R.D.J 

PENFIELD.  We  have  a  great  deal  to  talk  over — 
plan!  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  wait. 

JANE.  (Wearily)  O  Lord,  yes,  stay!  I  don't 
care  what  you  do !  (CaUing)  Julie !  Julie !  Julie ! 
(JANE  exits  L.D.J 

(PENFIELD  turns  slowly  and  comes  down  L.  in  sol- 
emn thought,  perplexity  and  growing  worry; 
sinks  down  on  settle.  After  a  moment  he  slips 
his  fingers  in  vest  pocket  and  takes  out  GEORG- 
INE'S  engagement  ring.  He  looks  at  it  solemn- 


90  THE   TONGUES    OF    MEN 

ly.  Gives  a  sigh,  then  a  shrug,  as  though  to  say, 
"That's  all  over,"  and  puts  the  ring  in  his  pocket. 
Doorbell  rings  off  stage  L.  PENFIELD  rises, 
straightens  himself  up,  zvith  an  air  of  determi- 
nation to  make  the  best  of  it.  Goes  to  fireplace, 
leans  against  the  mantel.) 

GEORGINE.  (Without  L.J  Tell  Miss  Bartlett  that 
Miss  Darigal  is  here.  (PENFIELD  starts  at  the  sound 
of  her  z'oice.) 

RAPHAEL.  (Without  L.)  I  do  not  know  if  Ma- 
dam expects  you. 

GEORGINE.  (Without  L.)  She  sent  for  me — tele- 
phoned me  to  come. 

RAPHAEL.     (Without  L.)  Entrez,  Mademoiselle. 

(RAPHAEL  shows  GEORGINE  in  L.D.  She  pauses  up 
L.,  seeing  PENFIELD.  She  is  indignant  at  find- 
ing him  there.  He  is  embarrassed.  RAPHAEL 
closes  L.D,  and  exits  R.D.J 

GEORGINE.  (Coldly  to  PENFIELD)  Did  Miss 
Bartlett  know  that  you  were  going  to  be  here  when 
she  'phoned  me? 

PENFIELD.     (Lamely)     I — I  don't  know. 

GEORGINE.  (Coming  down  R.C.)  I  wouldn't  have 
come  at  all  if  I'd  known  you  were  going  to  be  here. 

PENFIELD.  I'll  go,  if  you  like.  (Makes  a  move 
to  go  up  L.) 

GEORGINE.    I  don't  care  what  you  do. 

PENFIELD.  Then  I'll  stay.  (Turns  back  to  fire- 
place L.) 

GEORGINE.  (Sitting  on  piano  bench,  throwing 
open  her  coat)  I  didn't  come  to  see  you. 

PENFIELD.  I  know  that  Miss  Bartlett  sent  for 
you,  but  why? 

GEORGINE.    You're  so  intimate  with  her  you  ought 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  91 

to  know  better  than  I  do.  If  you  don't,  it's  because 
she  told  you  some  tara-diddle. 

PENFIELD.  Miss  Bartlett  is  incapable  of  false- 
hood. 

GEORGINE.  Rubbish !  She'd  lie  as  quickly  as — I 
would. 

PENFIELD.    I'm  not  comparing  you  with  her. 

GEORGINE.  That's  lucky  for  me.  If  you  did,  I 
should  be  the  one  to  suffer.  I'm  no  great  big,  flashy, 
middle-aged  Calypso. 

PENFIELD.     Neither  is  Miss  Bartlett. 

GEORGINE.  Oh,  you  think  she's  a  regular  stained- 
glass  angel. 

PENFIELD.  Well,  I'd  rather  you  didn't  throw 
bricks  through  her. 

GEORGINE.  Stand  up  for  her !  Stand  up  for  her ! 
It's  nothing  to  me — now  that  you've  made  up  your 
mind  that  our  engagement  is  broken;  but  I'm  sorry 
that  you've  let  that  woman  compromise  you  so! 

PENFIELD.  I  haven't !  The  shoe's  on  the  other 
foot !  I've  compromised  her. 

GEORGINE.  You  can't  compromise  a  woman  with 
seven  children  in  Buda  Pesth. 

PENFIELD.  (Indignantly)  Seven  children  in 
Buda  Pesth !  She  hasn't  even  one ! 

GEORGINE.  Then  she  probably  has  them  some 
other  place;  and  even  if  she  hasn't,  you  can't  hurt 
her  reputation. 

PENFIELD.  I  have.  I've  compromised  her!  But 
I'm  going  to  do  the  honorable  thing. 

GEORGINE.  (Startled,  alarmed)  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ? 

PENFIELD.  Marry  her!  (This  is  a  solar-plexus 
blow  to  GEORGINE.  She  sits  there  staring  at  PEN- 
FIELD  for  a  moment.) 

GEORGINE.     (Weakly)     Marry — her? 

PENFIELD.     Yesi! 


92  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

(JANE  appears  at  R.D.  She  is  freshened  up,  wears  a 
handsome  loose,  filmy,  flowing  boudoir  gown. 
She  pauses  there,  listening.) 

GEORGINE.  (To  PEN  FIELD,  warmly,  excitedly)  I 
knew  I  was  right  to  break  our  engagement.  From 
the  first  I  felt  that  something  like  this  would  hap- 
pen. Why,  the  very  day  you  asked  me  to  marry  you, 
you  began  to  fall  in  love  with  that — that  man-eater ! 
(Working  herself  up)  W-w-why,  she's  old  enough 
to  b-b-be  your  mother!  (Starting  to  go.)  I  wish 
you  happiness ! 

(JANE  enters.  She  is  followed  by  JULIE  carrying 
a  pair  of  embroidered  pillows  and  RAPHAEL 
bearing  a  tray  daintily  laid  with  a  glass  and  sil- 
ver breakfast  service,  toast  in  a  rack,  omelette 
under  a  silver  cover,  etc.,  a  grape  fruit  embed- 
ded in  shaved  ice,  etc.) 

JANE.  My  dear  Miss  Darigal !  It  was  good  of 
you  to  come.  I  didn't  want  to  keep  you  waiting — 
so  here  I  am.  We'll  have  breakfast  together! 

(RAPHAEL  places  a  tray  on  c.  table.  JULIE  places 
a  cushion  on  chair  back  of  table.  The  servants 
stand  at  attention — RAPHAEL  R.  side  and  JULIE 
L.  side  of  table.) 

GEORGINE.  (Coldly)  No — thank  you.  I — I  must 
go. 

JANE.    But  you  mustn't  run  away! 

GEORGINE.     Please  let  me  go. 

JANE.  No — no — my  dear.  I  v,ron't  hear  of  it! 
Sit  down,  child;  sit  down!  (GEORGINE  reluctantly 
returns  to  piano  bench  and  sits.  PENFIELD  leans 
against  mantel-shelf,  nervously  twisting  his  watch- 
chain.) 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  93 

JANE.  You  won't  mind  if  I  go  ahead.  I'm  fam- 
ished. We  can  chat.  (JANE  sits  in  chair  back  of  c. 
table.  RAPHAEL  pushes  her  up  to  table,  while  JULIE 
places  the  second  pillow  under  JANE'S  feet.  Pre- 
paring to  eat  the  grape  fruit)  Ah,  that  looks  very 
nice.  (Tastes  it.)  Ugh!  Raphael,  do  you  want  to 
poison  me?  (To  GEORGINE)  You  know  it's  almost 
impossible  to  get  anything  fit  to  eat.  (To  RAPHAEL* 
who  stands  R.  side  of  table)  I  wouldn't  give  that  to 
my  dog — if  I  had  one!  Take  it  away — take  it 
away!  (RAPHAEL  takes  grape  fruit  from  tray. 
JANE  sinks  back  in  chair.)  You've  spoilt  my  break- 
fast. Now  I  can  eat  nothing — absolutely  nothing. 
And  how  am  I  to  have  the  strength  to  sing  tonight 
if  I  have  nothing  to  eat  ? 

RAPHAEL.  I'm  very  sorry,  Madam.  Would  you 
like  an  orange? 

JANE.  An  orange?  An  orange?  A  nasty  little 
orange?  No — I  tell  you,  I'll  have  nothing.  Take  it 
away! 

JULIE.  But  Madam  must  eat  just  a  bite.  There 
is  an  omelette. 

JANE.  (Sarcastically,  as  though  she  never  got 
anything)  Oh,  I  have  an  omelette.  Thank  God  I 
have  something.  (RAPHAEL  with  a  flourish  uncov- 
ers the  omelette  and  begins  to  serve  it.) 

JANE.  Don't  mess  it  about  that  way.  Get  out — 
get  out — get  out!  (RAPHAEL  hastens  out  R.D.  with 
a  despairing  shrug.) 

JULIE.     Shall  I  serve  the  coffee,  Madam? 

JANE.  Oh,  I  have  coffee,  have  I?  Probably 
stone  cold  by  this  time. 

JULIE.  (Serving  coffee)  No,  Madam,  it  is  quite 
hot. 

JANE.  That  will  do — that  will  do!  Don't  slop  it 
in  the  saucer.  (To  GEORGINE  and  PENFIELD)  I 
simply  wear  my  voice  out — shouting  at  imbeciles. 
(JULIE  starts  to  cry.)  There  she  goes,  blubbering 


94  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

into  my  coffee !  (Commandingly)  Julie !  (Affec- 
tionately) Julie,  my  child!  There,  there!  Stop  it 
instantly.  You  shall  have  my  mauve  gown,  do  you 
hear! 

JULIE.    (Overcome  with  gratitude)    Oh,  Madam ! 

JANE.  Yes,  yes,  it  is  yours.  Now  run  along — run 
along.  (JuLiE  starts  toward  L.D.,  in  tears  and 
smiles.) 

JANE.    Where's  the  butter?    Where's  the  butter? 

JULIE.     (Turning  back)    On  the  toast,  Madam. 

JANE.  On  the  toast!  And  you  know  I  always 
butter  my  own  toast. 

JULIE.    But  yesterday  Madam  insisted 

JANE.  (Exasperated)  Will  you  go — and  let  me 
have  some  p-e-a-c-e !  QULIE  exits  R.D.  with  a  sigh. 
With  a  complete  transition  to  even,  conversational 
tones  as  she  attacks  omelette  and  coffee)  Now — 
where  were  we?  What — what  were  you  saying? 
Oh,  yes :  when  you  got  me  on  the  'phone  this  morn- 
ing, Miss  Darigal,  I  was — quite  out  of  my  head. 

But  then — something  happened What  was  it? 

Oh,  yes — Mr.  Sturgis  came! 

PENFIELD.  (Much  upset)  I  was  explaining  to 
Miss  Darigal 

JANE.  (To  GEORGINE)  Ah,  then  you  know 
everything! 

GEORGINE.  I — I  know  that  Mr.  Sturgis — pro- 
pro-posed  to  you. 

JANE.  (Annoyed,  looking  over  tray)  There's 
never  any  sugar 

GEORGINE.  But — but  he  didn't  tell  me  whether — 
you — you  had  accepted  him. 

JANE.  (Having  found  the  sugar,  now  poising  a 
lump  in  her  fingers)  Let  me  see — what  did  I  do? 

PENFIELD.     You  accepted  me. 

JANE  So  I  did — so  I  did !  (Drops  sugar  lump 
into  coffee.  To  GEORGINE)  I  never  seem  to  have 
my  wits  about  me  before  breakfast.  Luckily,  Pen 


THE   TONGUES    OF    MEN  95 

had  had  his  breakfast,  or  I  should  have  told  him  to 
think  it  over.  He's  so  chivalrous,  so  impetuous,  so 
romantic ! 

PENFIELD.  (Peevishly)  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm 
not  romantic.  (Sinks  into  chair  by  tea-table  down  L.j 

JANE.  Ah,  but  you  are  impetuous — chivalrous — 
you  know  you  are.  (To  GEORGINE)  I  never  saw 
anything  like  him.  He  s-w-e-p-t  me  off  my  feet. 
Left  me  dazed,  you  know.  Even  now  I  don't  seem 
to  remember  how  it  happened.  How  did  it  happen, 
Pen? 

PENFIELD.  (Glumly)  I  came  in  as  Mr.  Goadby 
and  Loughran  were  leaving. 

JANE.  That  was  it — they  had  been  behaving  out- 
rageously to  me — insulting  me — it  was  something 
terrific !  And — you — know  Pen !  He  couldn't  stand 
by  and  see  a  woman  bullied  by  a  pair  of  jackanapes ! 
He  turned  on  them  superbly — asked  me  to  marry 
him — all  in  a  flash — and  just  as  quickly,  impulsively 
— I  said,  "Yes!"  (To  PENFIELD)  You  were  de- 
termined to  silence  all  this  scandal.  Weren't  you, 
Pen? 

PENFIELD.    That's — that's  how  I  felt  about  it. 

JANE.  (To  GEORGINE)  He  would  have  done  it 
at  any  cost.  Isn't  that  so,  Pen  ? 

PENFIELD.     Y — yes ! 

JANE.  (To  GEORGINE)  It  was  the  only  thing  for 
him  to  do.  (To  PEN)  Am  I  right? 

PENFIELD.     I — I  suppose  so ! 

GEORGINE.  (Starting,  to  JANE)  Oh,  you — you 
think  thafs  the  reason  he  asked  you — to — to  marry 
him? 

JANE.  (Sweetly)  I  think  that  was  why  he  asked 
me  then.  But  if  I  were  not  sure  that  he  loved  me, 
I'd  break  my  engagement  with  him  as  quickly  as  you 
broke  yours,  my  dear. 

GEORGINE.  (Stealthily)  But  if  he  only  asked  you 
to  marry  him  because 


96  THE   TONGUES    OF    MEN 

PENFIELD.  Georgine,  I'd  rather  you  didn't  try  to 
explain  me.  I  am  betrothed  to  Miss  Bartlett.  So 
long  as  she  honors  me  with  her — affection,  I  shall 
consider  myself  the — most  fortunate  of  men. 

JANE.  Thank  you,  Pen.  After  that  passionate 
declaration,  I  hope  Miss  Darigal  is  satisfied.  (Ris- 
ing) Now  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  excuse  me — I 
have  a  thousand  things  to  do — if  we're  to  be  married 
to-morrow. 

(Enter   DR.    FANSHAW   L.D.     GEORGINE   starts   ap- 
prehensively.) 

PENFIELD.  (Rising  in  alarm)  Married  to-mor- 
row? 

JANE.  Why  not?  Why  not?  (Coming  down  R. 
of  table  toward  piano)  I'm  tired  of  everything.  I 
want  diversion — I'll  throw  up  my  contracts — we'll 
go  to  Paris,  Vienna,  Buda  Pesth !  .  .  .  Hello,  Lyn ! 

GEORGINE.  (Darting  across  to  FANSHAW,  up 
stage  L.C.  and  seising  his  hands)  She's  going  to 
marry  him  to-morrow ! 

FANSHAW.  Well,  well,  little  cousin — why  not? 
Why  not? 

GEORGINE.  I — I  don't  think  she — she  ought  to — 
to  hurry  him  this  way 

JANE.  (At  piano)  What's  that  to  you — or  any- 
body else?  This  is  to  be  my  wedding — my  honey- 
moon !  Good  Lord,  can't  I  acquire  a  husband  with- 
out everybody  going  mad? 

PENFIELD.  (Standing  L.,  below  settle)  But  don't 
you  think  we  might 

FANSHAW.  No  buts  about  it,  Pen,  my  boy — the 
woman  always  sets  the  day. 

JANE.  (To  PENFIELD)  And  what's  the  matter 
with  to-morrow,  anyway?  Oh,  it's  Friday!  You 
don't  like  Friday — superstitious?  Then  Saturday  it 
is!  No,  I  have  a  matinee!  Never  mind,  we'll  be 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  97 

married  after  the  matinee.  Lyn  can  give  me  away — 
he'd  like  that ! 

PENFIELD.  I — I  should  like  to  have  a — a  day  or 
two  longer  before 

GEORGINE.  (Going  c.  in  front  of  the  table)  Be- 
fore he  sacrifices  himself.  Oh,  can't  you  both  see — 
(Appealing  first  to  FANSHAW  and  then  to  JANE) — 
that  if  he  cared  anything  for  you  he'd  never  hesitate 
like  that  ? 

JANE.  My  dear,  you  must  be  deaf — deaf  as  a  bass 
drum.  You  heard  him  say  just  now  that  he  loved 
me  passionately,  didn't  you? 

GEORGINE.  You  said  it!  He  didn't!  (Coming 
down  from  c.  to  L.C.,  to  PENFIELD,  pleadingly)  Oh, 
you  don't  love  her.  Do  you,  Pen? 

JANE.  (R.c.J  How  dare  you  put  such  a  question 
to  him?  Didn't  you  fail  him  when  he  needed  you 
most?  (GEORGINE  hesitates.) 

JANE.     (Insistently)     Didn't  you? 

GEORGINE.     Y — yes ! 

JANE.  Didn't  you  throw  him  over  in  the  most 
brutal  way?  Didn't  you? 

GEORGINE.     (Groggy)    Y — yes,  but 

JANE.  Didn't  you  tell  me  to  keep  his  ring? 
Where  is  that  ring,  anyway?  (PENFIELT/S  hand 
goes  guiltily  to  the  pocket  zvhcre  the  ring  is.)  You 
threw  it  at  him — threw  it  at  him ;  and  now  that  you 
realize  you've  lost  him  forever,  you  devil  the  life 
out  of  him.  I  won't  have  it — you — you  shan't  treat 
him  in  this  beastly  way.  Hahahaha!  It's  clear  to 
me  you  never  cared  that — (Snaps  her  fingers) — for 
him! 

GEORGINE.  (Hotly,  turning  on  JANE)  I  love 
him  as  you  don't  know  how  to  love  anyone  but  your- 
self !  (With  a  little  sob  she  crosses  to  piano  bench 
and  sinks  down  on  it.  JANE  goes  up  c.  PENFIELD 
crosses  to  GEORGINE.) 


98  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

PENFIELD.  (Surprised,  speaking  affectionately) 
Georgine ! 

GEORGINE.  You  mustn't  speak  to  me  in  that — that 
loving  way  unless  you — you  love  me.  (FANSHAW 
comes  down  L.  of  settle  to  fireplace.) 

JANE.  (Coming  down  L.C.  to  GEORGINE)  You're 
not  crying  because  your  heart  is  hurt — it's  because  of 
your  silly  pride — your  bad  temper.  Go  on — go  on — 
cry  till  your  nose  is  red — you  can't  move  me. 

FANSHAW.  Oh,  come  now,  Jane,  dear  old  girl, 
be  magnanimous — give  him  up. 

JANE.  Never !  Think  of  the  life  we'd  have  to- 
gether ! 

FANSHAW.  But  you  have  your  art — you  don't 
need  a  husband. 

JANE.  Ah,  but  he  needs  me — I'd  keep  him  waked 
up!  What  could  she  do  for  him? — the  sentimental 
little  idiot! 

FANSHAW.  But  he  may  have  a  weakness  for  sen- 
timental idiots — he  may  love  this  one — effervescently. 

JANE.       Impossible — incredible — he    couldn't — 
But — (With  a  transition) — I'll  show  you  the  kind  of 
woman  I  am.    //  he  does  love  her — well,  I'll  hand 
him  over  to  her. 

PENFIELD.  (Exasperated)  I  won't  be  passed 
back  and  forth  this  way — like 

FANSHAW.    A  loving  cup  at  a  banquet. 

JANE.  (To  FANSHAW)  What  did  I  tell  you? 
You  see  now,  there's  no  shaking  Pen's  affection  for 
me.  What  does  it  matter  if  Miss  Darigal  does  eat 
her  heart  out  for  him?  It  doesn't  affect  him  in  the 
least.  She's  not  the  kind  of  a  girl  to  appeal  to  him. 
She's  too — 'too  much  of  a  clinging  vine — too  femi- 
nine. Oh — her  eyes  are  too  big — her  hair's  too  curly ! 
He  never  did  love  her — he  never  could. 

PENFIELD.    (Suddenly,  protesting  warmly)   That's 

not  true — not  true  !    I — I  admire,  I  respect  you 

(Desperately)     But — oh,  I  can't  help  it,  I've  got  to 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  99 

say  it — I — I  worship  the  very  ground  she  walks  on ! 

JANE.  (With  a  cheerful  explosion)  Then  for 
God's  sake — take  her  in  your  arms — and  clear  out! 
(PENFIELD  and  GEORGINE  look  at  JANE  in  utter 
astonishment;  then  at  each  other.  GEORGINE  sud- 
denly flings  herself  into  PENFIELD'S  arms.) 

FANSHAW.    Pax  vobiscum ! 

PENFIELD.  (Over  GEORGINE'S  shoulder  to  JANE) 
I — I  believe  you've  been  chaffing  me. 

JANE.  (L.C.  by  settle)  Ah,  a  light  breaks  in  upon 
him!  You  dear,  delightful  donkey!  You  haven't 
been  sitting  on  my  chest  all  these  days  for  nothing — 
have  you? 

PENFIELD.  (With  a  sheepish  grin)  You're  right 
about  the  donkey — but  if  you're  satisfied,  I  am. 

JANE.  Satisfied?  Haven't  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  feeding  you  your  confounded  sermon  leaf  by 
leaf?  (Excitedly,  explaining  to  him)  Well,  didn't 
you  swallow  it?  Oh,  you  swallowed  it  like  a  man. 
(With  a  transition)  Bless  your  heart — you've  taken 
back  every  word  you  said  against  me,  fought  for  me, 
offered  yourself  to  me! — and — and  almost  married 
me !  (With  a  transition)  Oh,  it's  been  good  for  me, 
good  for  that  little  cry-baby  there — (Indicating 
GEORGINE) — good  for  you ;  and  I  hope  to  God  it  will 
be  good  for  the  poor  sinners  who  sit  in  your  church. 

PENFIELD.  I  feel  as  though  I  should  ask  all  the 
sinners  of  the  world  to  forgive  me ! 

JANE.  (With  comic  transition)  For  heaven's  sake, 
don't  do  it  here !  (Hustles  GEORGINE  and  PENFIELD 
toward  L.D.J 

GEORGINE.  (Impetuously  embracing  JANE)  You 
wonderful  darling! 

PENFIELD.  (Laying  a  hand  on  JANE'S  arm)  I 
shall  never  forget  you ! 

JANE.  (Breaking  out)  You  ungrateful  wretches! 
Do  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  stand  here  all  day — 
be  mauled  by  you  when  I'm  dying  for  my  massage? 


ioo  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

No!  Out  you  go — both  of  you — into  the  night! 
(JANE  puts  GEORGINE  and  PENFIELD  out  L.D.  and 
shuts  it  on  them.  She  turns  wearily  to  c.) 

FANSHAW.  (Standing  by  fireplace,  laughing) 
Jane,  you  ought  to  establish  a  bureau  for  lost,  strayed 
and  stolen  lovers ! 

JANE.  (Coming  down  to  R.  side  of  settle,  looking 
at  him  whimsically,  meaningly,  pausing  before  speak- 
ing) Yes,  I  ought! 

FANSHAW.  Bless  my  soul,  Jane — would  you  take 
the  trouble  to  find  me  now  ? 

JANE.  I  would  not !  You're  no  lover — you  never 
were.  Only  a  sort  of  property  papier-mache  affair. 
Why  didn't  you  make  real  love  to  me — years  ago — 
when  I  was  strapped,  helpless,  in  my  perambulator? 

FANSHAW.  You  were  much  too  fond  of  your 
rattle  then — too  fascinated  by  the  noise  you  made. 
For  years  you've  been  filling  the  world  with  your 
marvellous  squawking.  Now  the  time  has  come  for 
you  to  stop,  look  and  listen !  You're  going  to  marry 
me  to-morrow  afternoon  at  three  o'clock  sharp. 

JANE.  But,  Lyn,  my  angel,  what  would  you  do 
with  me  if  I  married  you? 

FANSHAW.  By  Jove,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  I 
wonder.  ...  I  think  I'd  drag  you  off  and  bury  you 
in  the  wilds  of  Connecticut. 

JANE.  (Sitting  up  straight,  suddenly)  I'd  rather 
stay  in  America! 

FANSHAW.  But  Jane,  dear,  you  must  leave  the 
stage — drop  it  all  now. 

JANE.  Yes,  yes,  I  ought  to  drop  it  all,  as  you  say — 
I  will — I  will — I'll  drop  all  the  roles  I  don't  like ! 
(Curls  herself  up  comfortably  on  the  settle  and 
counts  off  on  her  fingers)  I'll  never  sing  Carmen 
again!  No — not  Carmen — none  of  those  hand-or- 
gan parts.  Nor  Aida — nor  Violetta.  No !  I'll  sing 
what  appeals  to  me — Louise,  Tosca,  Isolda,  and  oh — 


THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN  101 

everything  you  like!     You  must  hear  me  to-night. 
I'll  sing  like  a  miracle! 

FANSHAW.  Don't  sing  to-night,  Jane.  I'll  phone 
Geist  that  you've  got  an  attack  of  laryngitis.  I  want 
you  to  myself. 

JANE.  (Affectionately,  rising)  Oh,  Lyn,  I  would 
love  an  evening  of  peace  and  quiet  and  petting  with 
you — but  I  can't  disappoint  my  audience — (Strong- 
ly)— not  for  man,  devil,  god,  or  lover!  When  I'm 
billed  to  sing — I  sing !  (Starts  up  stage  to  R.C.,  then 
faces  about,  with  a  transition,  her  hands  to  her 
throat)  Oh,  my  voice — my  voice! 

FANSHAW.  Let  me  look  at  your  throat!  (Goes 
up  to  table  c.  and  picks  up  a  spoon.) 

JANE.  No — no!  (Comes  down  c.)  You're  go- 
ing to  find  something  the  matter  with  it!  (Backs 
aivay  as  he  comes  down  to  her.) 

FANSHAW.  (Commandingly)  Let — me — look — 
at — your — throat !  (They  are  now  down  c.,  he  fac- 
ing L.,  she  facing  R.  He  lays  his  left  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  poising  spoon  in  other  hand.)  Open ! 
(JANE  opens  her  mouth;  FANSHAW  places  spoon  in 
her  mouth.)  Say,  Ah! 
JANE.  Ah ! 

FANSHAW.  (Keeping  left  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
taking  spoon  from  her  'mouth;  speaking  profession- 
ally) Hum ! 

JANE.  How  is  it?  (FANSHAW  kisses  her  full  on 
the  mouth.  JANE  slips  her  arms  about  him;  then 
slowly  withdraws  from  his  embrace,  but  still  keeps  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  Looking  into  his  face,  speak- 
ing affectionately  in  a  low,  mellow  tone)  Oh,  Lyn, 
Lyn,  you  precious,  patient,  wise  old  dear !  (Strong- 
er) What  a  fool (Higher  in  scale)  What  an 

idiot (Lower  in  scale,  stronger)  What  a  jack- 
ass I've  been !  (Looking  toward  audience,  her  hand 
still  on  his  shoulder)  I  have  thought  that  my  voice 
was  the  most  important  thing  in  life.  It's  not,  my 


102  THE   TONGUES   OF   MEN 

old  one — the  most  important  thing  is  loving  someone. 
(Directly  to  him)  You've  known  that  all  these 
years,  and  I've  just  learned  it.  What  a  goose  I've 
been.  But  it's  not  too  late.  If  you'ii  let  me,  Lyn, 
I'll  make  the  rest  of  our  life  one  long  Indian  Sum- 
mer! If  you  really  want  this  goose,  she'll  clip  her 
wings  for  you!  (FANSHAW  takes  both  her  out- 
stretched hands  in  his  and  kisses  them,) 

CURTAIN 


ON  THE  HIRING  LINE 

Comedy  in  3  acts,  by  Harvey  O'Higgins  and  Harriet 
Ford.  5  males,  4  females.  Interior  throughout.  Costumes, 
modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

Sherman  Fessenden,  unable  to  induce  servants  to  remain  for 
any  reasonable  length,  of  time  at  his  home,  hits  upon  the  novel 
expedient  of  engaging  detectives  to  serve  as  domestics. 

His  second  wife,  in  actress,  weary  of  the  country  and  longing 
for  Broadway,  has  succeeded  in  discouraging  every  other  cook  and 
butler  against  remaining  long  at  the  house,  believing  that  by  so 
doing  she  will  win  her  husband  to  her  theory  that  country  life 
is  dead.  So  she  is  deeply  disappointed  when  she  finds  she  cannot 
discourage  the  new  servants. 

The  sleuths,  believing  they  had  been  called  to  report  on  tha 
notions  of  those  living  with  the  Fessendens,  proceeded  to  warn 
Mr.  Fessenden  that  his  wife  has  been  receiving  love-notes  from 
Steve  Mark,  an  actor  friend,  and  that  his  daughter  has  been 
planning  to  elope  with  a  thief. 

One  sleuth  causes  an  uproar  in  the  house,  making  a  mess  of 
the  situations  he  has  witnessed.  Mr.  Fessenden,  however,  haa 
learned  a  lesson  and  is  quite  willing  to  leave  the  servant  problem 
*o  bra  wife  thereafter.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.) 

Price,  75  Cents, 


A  FULL  HOUSE 

A  fareieal  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Fred  Jackson.  7  males, 
7  females.  One  interior  scene.  Modern  costumes.  Time, 
2%  hours. 

Imagine  a  reckless  and  wealthy  youth  who  writes  ardent 
love  letters  to  a  designing  chorus  girl,  an  attorney  brother- 
in-law  who  steals  the  letters  and  then  gets  his  hand-bag  mixed 
up  with  the  grip  of  a  burglar  who  has  just  stolen  a  valuable 
necklace  from  the  mother  of  the  indiscreet  youth,  and  the 
efforts  of  the  crook  to  recover  his  plunder,  as  incidents  in 
the  story  of  a  play  in  which  the  swiftness  of  the  action 
never  halts  for  an  instant.  Not  only  are  the  situations  scream- 
ingly funny  but  the  lines  themselves  hold  a  fund  of  humor  at 
all  times.  This  newest  arid  cleverest  of  all  farces  was  written 
by  Fred  Jackson,  the  well-known  short-story  writer,  and  i£ 
backed  up  by  the  prestige  of  an  impressive  New  York  success 
and  the  promise  of  unlimited  fun  presented  in  the  most  attrac- 
tive form.  A  cleaner,  cleverer  farce  has  not  been  seen  for  many 
A  long  day.  "A  Full  House"  is  a  house  full  of  laughs.  (Royalty. 
twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
Our  N«i?  Catalogue  Will  Be  Sent  on  Receipt  of  Five  Cenu 


POLLYANNA 

"The  glad  play,"  in  3  acts.  By  Catherine  Chisholm 
Gushing.  Based  on  the  novel  by  Eleanor  H.  Porter.  5 
males,  6  females.  2  interiors.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays 
2%  hours. 


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MRS.  PARTRIDGE  PRESENTS 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Mary  Kennedy  and  Euth  Haw- 
thorne. 6  males,  6  females.  Modern  costumes.  2  interiors. 
Plays  2Vn  hours. 

The  characters,  scenes  and  situations  are  thoroughly  up-to- 
date  in  this  altogether  delightful  American  comedy.  The  heroins 
is  a  woman  of  tremendous  energy,  who  manages  a  business — as 
she  manages  everything — with  great  success,  and  at  home  pre- 
sides over  the  destinies  of  a  growing  son  and  daughter.  Her 
struggle  to  give  the  children  the  opportunities  she  herself  had 
missed,  and  the  children's  ultimate  revolt  against  her  well-meant 
management — that  is  the  basis  of  the  plot.  The  son  who  is  cast 
for  the  part  of  artist  and  the  daughter  who  is  to  go  on  the  stage 
offer  numerous  opportunities  for  the  development  of  the  comio 
possibilities  in  the  theme. 

The  play  is  one  of  the  most  delightful,  yet  thought-provoking 
American  comedies  of  recent  years,  and  is  warmly  recommended 
to  all  amateur  groups.  (Royalty  on  application.)  Price,  75  Cents, 


IN  THE  NEXT  ROOM 

Melodrama  in  3  acts.  By  Eleanor  Eobson  and  Harriet 
Ford.  8  males,  3  females.  2  interiors.  Modern  costumes. 
Plays  2%  hours. 

"Philip  Vantine  has  bought  a  rare  copy  of  an  original  Boula 
cabinet  and  ordered  it  shipped  to  his  New  York  home  from  Paris. 
When  it  arrives  it  is  found  to  be  the  original  itself,  the  pos- 
session of  which  is  desired  by  many  strange  people.  Before  tha 
mystery  concerned  with  the  cabinet's  shipment  can  be  cleared 
up,  two  persons  meet  mysterious  death  fooling  with  it  and  tha 
happiness  of  many  otherwise  happy  actors  is  threatened"  (Burns 
Mantle).  A  first-rate  mystery  play,  comprising  all  the  elements 
of  suspense,  curiosity,  comedy  and  drama.  "In  the  Next  Room" 
is  quite  easy  to  stage.  It  can  be  unreservedly  recommended  to 
high  schools  »ad  colleges.,  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.) 

Price,  75  Cents. 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
Our  New  Catalogue  Will  Be  Sent  on  Receipt  of  Five  Cents 


FRENCH'S 
Standard  Library  Edition 


George  M.  Cohan 

-Augustus    Thomas 
Winchell  Smith 

'William    Gillette 

Frank  Craven 

Owen  Davis 

Austin  Strong 
i        A.  A.  Milne 

Harriet    Ford 

Paul  Green 
;        James   Montgomery 

Edward    Childs   Carpenter 

Arthur    Richman 

Philip    Barry 

George  Middleton 

Charming  Pollock 

George  Kaufman 

Martin  Flavin 

Victor  Mapes 

Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 

Rida  Johnson  Young 

Margaret    Mayo 

Roi  Cooper  Megrue 

Jean  Webster 

George   Broadhurst 

George  Hobart 

Frederick   S.   Isham 

Madeline  Lucette  Rytey 

Fred    Bollard 

Percy  MacKaye 

Willard    Mack 

Jerome   K.   Jerome 

R.  C.  Carton 

Mark    Swan 

Rachel    Crothers 

W.  W.  Jacobs 

Ernest  Denny 

Kenyon  Nicholson 

Aaron  Hoffman 

H.  V.  Esmond 

Edgar    Selwyn 

Laurence  Housman 

Israel  Zangwill 

Walter  Hackett 

A.  E.  Thomas 

Edna  Ferber 

Justin  Huntley  McCarthy 

John    Henry    Mears 

John  B.  Stapleton 

Frederick  Lonsdale 

Bryon   Ongley 

Rex  Beach 


Includes  Plays  by 

George  Kelly 

Booth    Tarkington 

George  Ade 

J.   C.  and   Elliott  Nugent 

J.  Hartley  Manners 

Barry  Conners 

Edith   Ellis 

Harold    Brighouse 

Harvey    J.    O'Higgini 

Clare  Kummer 

James  Forbes 

William  C.  DeMille 

Louis   N.   Parker 

Anthony   Hope 

Lewis    Beach 

Guy  Bolton 

Edward  E.  Rose 

Marc    Connelly 

Frederick  Paulding 

Lynn  Starling 

Josephine  Preston   Peabody 

Catherine    Chisholm    Gushing 

Clyde    Fitch 
Earl  Derr  Biggers 

Thomas   Broadhurst 

Charles  Klein 

Bayard  Veiller 

C.    Haddon    Chambers 

Richard  Harding  Davis 
Cosmo  Gordon-Lennox 
Grace  L.  Furniss 

Martha   Morton 

Robert  Housum 
Carlisle  Moore 
Salisbury  Field 
Leo   Dietrichtstein 
Harry  James  Smith 
Eden    Phillpotts 
Sir   Arthur   Conan   Doyle 
Brandon  Tynan 
Clayton  Hamilton 
Edward  Sheldon 
Richard   Ganthony 
Jullie   Lippman 
Paul  Dickey 
Frank    Bacon 
Thompson   Buchanan 
Edward    Paulton 
Adelaide    Matthews 
William  Cary  Duncan 
A.  E.  W.  Mason 
H.  A.  Du  Souchet 


Paul   Armstrong 

French's  International  Copyrighted  Edition  contains  plays, 
comedies  and  farces  of  international  reputation;  also  recent 
professional  successes  by  famous  American  and  English 
Authors.  Send  a  five-cent  stamp  for  our  new  catalogue 
describing  thousands  of  plays. 

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